From Loyalty to Divorce

Chapter 4 — The Red Light and His Back

The SURGERY sign poured a steady red light over the corridor. The floor was clean and bright. The air smelled like lemon cleaner and something burned from the coffee machine. Charlotte sat where she could see the double doors. Her hands held a paper cup only to keep them from shaking.

Footsteps stopped near her chair. She did not need to turn to know who it was.

“Charlotte," Harrison said.

She looked up at him and then back at the red sign. “Mia is in surgery."

“What room?" His voice was fast and tight. “How long has she been in there? What did they say?"

“They took her in a few hours ago," she said. “They think it was a twist. Laparoscopic."

“You should have called me sooner," he said. He raked a hand through his hair, as if that could pull the night into a better shape. “Any fever? Vomiting? What started it?"

“It came fast," she said. “I signed the consent. They rolled her through those doors."

“You had one job," he said, low. “I give you enough every month so you don't have to think about anything but our child. Not work. Not errands. Not stress. Watch her. That's the point."

Charlotte kept her eyes on the red light. “Money does not stop an intestine from twisting."

“It keeps you focused," he said. He stepped closer. His coat brushed her knee. “Where were you before this? Did you miss signs? There should be notes. Logs. If you had followed the system—"

“I was with her," Charlotte said. “Holding her hand when she told me she was scared."

He took a breath and made his voice cooler, like he was back in a meeting. “You should have paged me on the pack line. I told you that."

“I called your phone," she said. “A woman answered."

He stared at the doors. His jaw tightened. “This isn't the time."

“It is," she said. “She asked for you before they put her under. I tried. A voice I know said hello."

The seconds clicked off on the wall clock. The red sign kept glowing. A cart wheel squeaked down the hall and then was gone.

“What's the surgeon's name?" he asked.

“Larkin," she said. “They started antibiotics. They said minutes mattered."

He nodded once and then looked at her blanket, her cup, her shoes. “I told you to keep a schedule on the fridge," he said. “Food. Symptoms. Sleep. That's why you have staff. That's why I send the money. I've said this a hundred times."

“Say her name," Charlotte said.

“Mia," he said at once. “Mia should have been—" He stopped and pressed his lips together.

“She is eight," Charlotte said. “She reads under a blanket with a flashlight and pretends she doesn't. She hates peas and eats three for luck. A schedule won't carry her to the bathroom at two in the morning. A father will."

He stepped even closer, as if distance itself was a challenge. “My presence keeps people alive. I hold borders so rogues don't drag pups out of beds. That is the weight on my back while you sit here and call it absence."

“You chose that weight over us and called it duty," she said. “No one forced that trade."

“Lower your voice," he said.

“No." She kept her tone even. “I'm not making a scene. I'm telling you facts."

He watched the red light again. For a second he looked like the man she had married—the man who would sit in a hard chair all night and breathe with her. The second ended. The Alpha came back.

“I'll stand by the doors," he said. “If they let me in, I'll go."

“You can stand there," she said. “No one goes past the line."

He turned toward the doors and then stopped. “Why are you here on this floor?" he asked. “Emily is downstairs. You're not with her. You're here."

“I'm here for our daughter," Charlotte said.

“Tell me the truth," he said, voice sharper. “Did you follow me?"

She looked at him, calm. “No."

He waited, as if another answer was supposed to appear. It did not.

“Fine," he said. “Sit and wait. Don't make trouble."

“I've been waiting," she said.

His phone buzzed in his hand. He did not look at it at first. Then he did. He turned the screen slightly away, but Charlotte still saw the name because he had held that phone near her face too many times for her not to know its glow.

EMILY.

He stared at the doors. He stared at the screen. He stared at Charlotte. He let the call ring once. Twice. Three times. He answered.

“What," he said, clipped, and then he softened like a switch had been thrown. “Breathe. I'm coming." He turned his back a little and lowered his voice. “I'll be there."

Charlotte watched his shoulders and understood the line he had drawn inside himself. He put the phone down and faced her again. The apology did not come. The explanation did not come either.

“You're leaving," she said.

“They think she hit her head," he said. “It's five minutes." He looked toward the ER. “I'll come back."

“Maybe," Charlotte said. “Maybe not."

He opened his mouth. She stepped aside and left space for him to pass. “She asked to see you," Charlotte said. “You know where to stand."

He looked at her one last time. The hallway light cut a hard edge along his cheek. Then he turned and walked toward the elevator. His steps were quick and clean. His back was straight. He looked like a man who knew exactly where he was going. He did not look back.

Charlotte did not chase him. She did not speak into the space he left. She watched him reach the elevator and press the button with a flat finger. The doors opened. He went in. The doors closed. The red light kept burning.

She stood still. The cup in her hand had gone cold. She threw it away. She sat again where she could see the double doors. The chair was hard under her ribs. She pulled the blanket over her knees and folded it once, then again, the way you fold sheets when you don't know what else to fix.

The television on the far wall moved to a new map. No sound. The clock kept its small beat. Charlotte's breath matched it because that was something she could control. In for four. Out for four. She had learned that when Mia was a baby and sleep only came to a quiet house.

A volunteer walked past pushing a cart of small things—magazines, puzzle books, chargers. Charlotte shook her head when the volunteer slowed. The volunteer nodded and kept going.

Charlotte took out her phone and opened a blank note. She typed: “Mia, when you wake up, I'm here." She typed and deleted: “Dad will be here soon." She locked the screen and set the phone face down.

She looked at the doors and pictured the bright room beyond them. She pictured Mia under warm lights, people working with steady hands, a small chest moving up and down. She pictured a nurse saying her name. She pictured a doctor saying it went well. She held those pictures like stones so her mind would not slide off the edge of the night.

The elevator chimed again. She did not turn. She did not want the sight of his face to pull energy from the place where she needed it. The chime faded. The red light stayed.

She thought about the first time she had sat up all night in a waiting room with Harrison. He had brought terrible coffee and not drunk it because he did not want to miss her voice. He had told her to breathe when she forgot how. He had kept his coat over her knees. She let the memory form and then let it go. She could not use it now.

Her phone buzzed once and then stopped. She did not look. She did not need a message that explained why he would not be where he had promised to be.

A janitor wiped a line along the baseboard and moved on. The smell of cleaner grew and thinned. Somewhere far away, an alarm beeped twice and then went quiet. Charlotte put her hands flat on her knees. She watched the doors.

Time moved. It always does. It does not ask permission and it does not wait for anyone to be ready. It only goes.

Charlotte drew one breath and then another. The red light painted the wall and her skin. She could see the mark of it on the back of her hand. She curled her fingers and then opened them.

The elevator chimed again. It opened and closed. It could have been anyone. It could have been no one. The hall kept its steady hum. She did not search faces. She did not scan for his shape.

She let her shoulders drop. She let her mouth learn the shape of a small, tired smile. It was not joy. It was not even comfort. It was a simple thing: the body's way of saying, I see the truth and I can still stand here.

She looked at the space where he had been, at the empty air that held the image of his back, and she smiled a bitter, quiet smile that no one saw. Then she turned her face to the red light again and kept her watch.