Chapter 118

• Howard paced the length of the dimly lit bedroom, his footsteps heavy and deliberate on the polished hardwood floor. Three hours had dragged by since Charlotte stormed out, the clock on the wall ticking mercilessly toward dawn—nearly 4 a.m. now, with no word from her. He knew where she'd gone: the hospital. She was a doctor first and his wife second, and always had been, her oath pulling her into the night despite the bitter argument.
• He stopped abruptly before the wall clock, its hands frozen in accusation at 3:57. Howard's jaw clenched as he glared at it, his broad shoulders tense under his rumpled shirt. Anger simmered in his chest—she'd left without explanation, her face twisting from fury to urgency the moment her phone buzzed with that emergency call. What the hell had happened at the hospital to drag her out like that? He raked a hand through his disheveled hair, his free hand balling into a fist. Even through the rage, worry gnawed at him, a quiet traitor in his heart. She was tough and capable, but nights like this reminded him how fragile that line could be.
• He couldn't stand it any longer. With a sharp exhale, Howard yanked his phone from his pocket, thumb hovering over her number before pressing call. The ringtone echoed through the empty room—once, twice, five times—straight to silence. No answer. "Damn it, woman," he muttered under his breath, his voice low and gravelly, laced with frustration. He pictured her in scrubs, hair pulled back, dealing with some crisis, but why not pick up? What kind of emergency changes a woman's expression like that, mid-fight?