Willow was dead

The ringing of Rhea's phone echoed through the dimly lit room.

She pressed her ear deeper into the pillow, trying to block out the relentless sound. For a moment, it stopped, giving her peace, only for it to start again.

She groaned in annoyance. With a sluggish movement, she pushed the pillow away and leaned back on the bed, staring up at the ceiling. She rubbed her swollen eyes, only to wince as a sharp sting reminded her of the damage she had done. It felt as if they were stuck, too dry and sore to function properly.

It was her fault. She couldn't blame anyone but herself. It had been a week. A week since her divorce. A week since her world shattered. And in that week, she had done nothing but sleep and cry.

That was her routine now.

Sleep. Cry. Repeat.

She hardly ate. Only enough to keep her body from completely shutting down. The heavy curtains remained shut, blocking out any light. It was as if time no longer existed in this room.

And no one disturbed her. She had made sure of that. She had warned the hotel staff not to bother her, and they didn't care as long as she paid for the room.

Deep down, she didn't want to admit it, but she knew she was slipping into a state of depression. But knowing it wouldn't change anything. It wasn't like she could fix it.

The ringing snapped her out of her thoughts again. She sighed and turned her head toward the phone on the nightstand. There was only one person who would be calling her. The same person who had been calling her these past few days.

The hospital. The place where Oliver's mother—no. Not Oliver's mother.

Willow. The poor woman he had used.

It wasn't that Rhea had been ignoring Willow. She wanted to see her. She wanted to hold her hand, sit by her bedside, and tell her everything was okay. But she couldn't, because Willow always knew.

She had an uncanny ability to see through Rhea, to understand things without being told. And after everything that had happened, Rhea couldn't bear to let Willow see her like this. And besides Willow was sick. She didn't need to bear Rhea's burdens too.

The phone rang again. Rhea exhaled slowly, pressing her fingers against her temple. The ringing was relentless. There was no escaping it.

Finally, she reached for the phone and answered.

"Hello, can you—"

Before she could even finish, a voice cut her off.

"Mrs. Rhea, I've been trying to reach you. Your husband didn't come, even after I told him everything."

She froze. Her breath hitched slightly. "Why? Is something wrong? Is Willow okay?"

There was a pause on the other end. "I'm sorry to inform you, but Willow passed away a week ago. I've been trying to tell you and—"

Rhea didn't hear the rest. Her ears rang. Her heartbeat pounded wildly. Her grip on the phone loosened.

She couldn't breathe, she couldn't believe it. Willow was dead.

A week ago. A whole week. And she hadn't been there. She had been drowning in her pain all these time, too stupid to notice anything.

The voice on the other end of the call asked again, "Mrs. Rhea? Are you okay?"

But Rhea couldn't speak. Her body moved on its own. She stood up so fast that her vision blurred, her legs buckling beneath her. She reached for the wall, steadying herself before grabbing the nearest jacket and throwing it over her shoulders.

Then she ran out of the hotel room. Down the hallway. Through the lobby. She ran like she had never run before.

The streets were busy, so the taxis wouldn't slow down for her. Still, she kept going. She kept running through the crowded streets as a car sped toward her, honking loudly, its headlights flashing.

She closed her eyes.

This is it.

Just when she thought she would die, the car came to a halt just inches from her. For a moment, she stood frozen, gasping for air.

"Are you fucking insane!" The driver flung the door open and stormed toward her, shouting angrily, but his voice was nothing but muffled noise in her ears.

She wasn't listening. Her eyes drifted past him, to the backseat of the car. A man was sitting there. Without thinking, Rhea ran to the door and yanked it open.

Christopher looked at the woman beside him, his brows furrowing slightly.

He had been on his way to an important business meeting, the day running on a strict schedule, until this woman suddenly rushed forward, nearly getting herself killed in the process. And now, as if she had lost her mind, she pushed open the car door.

"Please," Rhea begged, her voice cracking. She didn't care about anything, but getting there right now. "Take me to Saint Hospital. I need to get there."

Christopher didn't answer immediately. Instead, he studied her.

Messy hair, swollen eyes, her entire body trembling—this woman was clearly in distress. But that wasn't what intrigued him. It was the way her eyes burned with something raw, something close to despair.

Dante, his secretary, was already approaching, irritation written all over his face. "Who the hell—"

Before he could finish, Christopher raised a hand, silencing him.

Leaning back against the car seat, he turned his head slightly, his voice calm. "Drive to Saint Hospital."

Dante blinked, his frustration evident. "Sir, we have a—"

Christopher's gaze snapped to him.

That was all it took. Dante swallowed his complaint, nodding stiffly. "Yes, sir."

Without another word, he got into the driver's seat and started the engine. The car pulled away from the curb, the city blurring past as they sped toward Saint Hospital.

It didn't take long to reach the hospital.

The moment the car rolled to a stop, the woman threw the door open and bolted out without a single glance back. She ran as if her life depended on it, disappearing through the hospital entrance.

Christopher watched her, tilting his head slightly, his expression unreadable.

Dante, gripping the steering wheel, let out a sigh. "Sir, why did you help her?"

Christopher didn't answer. He simply leaned back in his seat, adjusting his cufflinks. Then, without looking at Dante, he said calmly, "Let's go."