Chapter 6: Midnight Calls and Tangled Hearts
1819 Words
The call dragged on for an hour—the longest Henry Parker had ever endured. When it finally ended, he pressed his fingers to his throbbing temples, drained but steady. He’d stayed patient, answering every question, soothing every rant. Now his body begged for rest. Shuffling to the balcony of his sleek London flat, he lit a cigarette, the amber glow flickering against the midnight skyline. The crisp air bit at his skin as he exhaled, letting the tension unravel before trudging back to bed.
Half a world away in Beijing, Emma Quinn snapped her laptop shut, wincing as she kneaded her stiff neck. The late-night brainstorming buzz had faded, leaving her mind sharp—and then mortified. It hit her like a slap: she’d called Henry in the dead of night, rambling for over an hour across a brutal time difference. She stared at her phone. 5 a.m. glowed back accusingly. After a stunned pause, she tapped out a frantic text: [Sorry, totally screwed up the time zones!]
Henry, just sinking into his crisp sheets, saw the screen light up. He typed back, fingers sluggish: [No sweat, I’d just wrapped work. Sleep well.] Emma drafted a wordy apology—guilt over her midnight ambush spilling onto the screen—then scrapped it, settling for a curt [Good night.] His reply echoed hers: Good night.
Four hours later, Ethan Blake’s voice exploded through her phone, shattering her shallow sleep. “Mrs. Moore and I are downstairs—ten minutes, move it!” His tone was sharp, urgent, like a drill sergeant’s bark. Emma, voice thick with grogginess, slurred, “What’s happening?”
“To grab my homework answers, then we’re off to the stables,” Ethan fired back, unrelenting.
Emma groaned, burrowing deeper into her pillow. “I’ll send the answers—skip the stables.”
“No chance,” Ethan snapped. “You begged me to fly back from New York for this. You think you can flake now? Mrs. Moore ditched her whole day—canceled meetings, shoved them to tomorrow—just for you. You’re bailing on her to nap?”
“You’re the worst!” Emma snarled, chucking her phone across the room. It thudded against the wall as she hauled herself out of bed, cursing under her breath.
Downstairs, Fang Muhe slipped his phone into his coat after rescheduling his packed day with his secretary. He glanced at Ethan, smirking. “Princess throwing another fit?”
“She’s probably roasting me alive,” Ethan muttered, slumping in the car’s plush leather seat, his mood as gray as the Beijing smog outside.
Fang Muhe chuckled, leaning back, his tailored suit creasing slightly. “You’ve got it coming.” Exhaustion tugged at him—he hadn’t slept well either—but he couldn’t resist a jab. “Why’d you ditch New York? If you were starving, I’d have wired cash. Instead, you sprint back to suffer her wrath.”
Ethan sighed, fogging the window with his breath. “Blame Qiqi. She swore she’d c***k that problem. Why else would I drag myself here to babysit her drama?”
Fang Muhe arched a brow, his sharp eyes glinting with skepticism. “Who really gave you that problem? Your advisor’s not bored enough to torture you like this.”
Ethan squirmed, a flush creeping up his neck. He’d concocted the whole thing to impress a brilliant crush back at Columbia—pride wouldn’t let him confess. “It’s legit for my prof,” he insisted, voice tight.
Fang Muhe’s smirk widened. “Better be true, or you’re screwed. Next break, stay gone—you two shave a decade off my life every time you show up.” He’d burned through a lifetime’s patience wrangling these two.
His phone buzzed mid-rant. Han Cen: [Free tonight?] Without a second thought, he fired back: [No.] Minutes ticked by with no reply. Fang Muhe frowned, staring at the blank screen, then stepped out to a nearby flowerbed, the wilted petals stark against the concrete. He dialed her.
Her voice answered, cool and distant, like a winter breeze. “What’s up?”
“Han Cen, how old are you?” he snapped, cutting through the pleasantries. “Still playing these silly games?” She’d crushed on him for years; he’d shut it down hard—no room for mixed signals.
“Then why call?” she countered, her tone edged with defiance.
“Over breakfast,” he said, voice flat. “Parents brought up Emma and your brother, Henry Parker. Both families are dead-set on pairing them. He’s a golden boy—thriving business, killer looks, razor-sharp mind. Every parent’s dream son-in-law. But anyone who knows him says he’s too icy, too calculating—marriage isn’t his vibe.”
He zeroed in. “You’ve been messing with Qiqi and Henry, haven’t you?”
Han Cen went rigid, caught off-guard. She hadn’t expected him to connect the dots so fast. A few days back, her grandfather had let slip that Henry was Emma’s blind date—practically a sealed deal, a textbook business alliance. She’d hoped Henry would treat Emma right, even prodding Grandpa to nudge him toward her. Now, cornered, she traced aimless patterns on her fogged-up car window, staying mute.
“Speak, or I’m hanging up!” Fang Muhe’s patience frayed.
After a tense beat, she relented. “If I said it was for Henry and Emma’s benefit, would you believe me?”
“Not a chance,” he shot back. “Cut it out. Don’t shove Qiqi into your mess. Your brother’s a walking calculator—think he gives a damn about romance? Stop stirring the pot. Let them sort it and split quick. I’m done.” He ended the call with a jab at the screen.
Turning back, he caught sight of Emma staggering out of her building, dark circles bruising her eyes, her hair a tangled mess. “What’d you do last night?” he asked, scanning her haggard look.
“Couldn’t sleep at Grandpa’s, snuck home,” she mumbled, the lie slipping out effortlessly. Fang Muhe didn’t buy it—she’d never gone to Grandpa Quinn’s last night, but he let it slide. She was too good at this game.
Emma fired off the answers to Ethan. He skimmed them, practically bouncing in his seat. “You’re my hero—big sis for life! I owe you!”
Fang Muhe glanced at her. “You solved it?”
“Who else?” she smirked, chin up, though Henry’s late-night assist loomed large in her mind.
The riding club manager rang—horses would be ready in 90 minutes. Fang Muhe confirmed, his voice clipped. He’d bought the club years ago for Emma and Ethan, who’d adored riding since they were kids tearing around on ponies. Even with his insane schedule, he’d hired top trainers and always carved out time to join them.
Ethan texted his crush the answers, waiting for a ping back. Restless, he leaned toward Emma. “Guess who Mrs. Moore and I bumped into last night?”
“A human,” she deadpanned, her sarcasm razor-sharp.
“Julian Harris,” he grinned, undeterred. “At a bar, schmoozing clients upstairs.”
“Better missed than met,” she shrugged, brushing it off like dust.
Later, at the stables, Fang Muhe ran into an old colleague and ushered them to the tea room. Emma and Ethan, allergic to small talk with strangers, slipped out to roam the snow-dusted grounds. The winter chill had stripped the place bare, cloaking it in stark white silence. Ethan checked his phone—two hours, no reply. He shoved it away, crunching frozen leaves underfoot, the sound slicing the quiet.
He picked up their thread. “Qiqi, when you said you’re over Julian Harris, were you just dodging me?”
Emma sighed, exasperated. “When’d you turn into a chatterbox?”
“He’s back,” Ethan pressed. “Working at Haina Bank—head of the China division.”
Emma’s hands stilled, the snowball she’d been shaping crumbling to powder. She wiped them on her jeans, steadying her breath. “I’m fine.”
“Your move?” Ethan asked, eyes searching her face.
“Thanks,” she said softly, throwing him off. She never thanked him—it was unnatural, borderline creepy.
“You okay?” he stammered, flustered.
“I’m good,” she nodded. Starting at Haina after Christmas, she’d face Julian prepared—no ambushes.
“Let’s find Mrs. Moore,” she said, striding off through the snow.
Ethan hurried after. “Sure you’re fine? If you’re upset, say it—cry if you need to. I won’t laugh, swear it.” He raised a hand like a scout.
“I’m not that fragile,” she scoffed, smirking faintly.
“Seeing him at work?”
“I’ll outshine him,” she said, a glint of mischief in her eyes.
“Huh?” Ethan blinked, lost.
“Smart people get it.”
He chased her, half-panicked. “Qiqi, don’t confess again! Another rejection would be brutal with him around all the time.”
“Do I look like I grovel?” she laughed, tossing her hair.
“Nah, you’re the toughest girl I know,” he grinned, relieved.
“Exactly.”
Years without Julian had forged her stronger. Still, his return stirred a bittersweet ache she couldn’t quite name.
“Skip the internship,” Ethan urged. “Join Haina HQ later—problem solved.”
“Band-Aid fix,” she replied, kicking a snow mound.
“What’s that mean?” He spun around, walking backward to face her.
“Julian’s a knot in my heart,” she said, voice softening. “Now’s my shot to untie it.”
Ethan nodded, catching her drift. “I’ve got your back. Four years stuck—time to cut it loose.”
They left the stables at 5 p.m., the ride back quiet. Julian weighed on Emma’s mind, dimming her usual spark. Fang Muhe noticed. “Qi, what’s up?”
“Didn’t sleep,” she deflected.
“That’s not it.”
She grinned. “Oh, my riding sucked? Blame the horse.”
“Talking to you is like pulling teeth,” he groaned.
“Easy fix—zip it,” she shot back, teasing.
He gave up, diving into his emails. Ethan snoozed upfront. Emma leaned back, drifting off—until Henry’s call jolted her awake.
“Busy?” His low voice washed over her like a warm tide, lifting her spirits.
“In the car,” she yawned, sleepy but alert.
“Dinner tonight?” he offered.
“Late return. Tomorrow—I owe you,” she countered, still guilty from last night’s marathon.
“Tonight, then. Run with me,” he said, casual yet firm.
Emma froze, heart skipping. Henry Parker—cool, unreachable Henry—wanted her for a midnight run?
- Writer
