Eleven Missed Calls

CHAPTER FIVE: Red Lights

ETHAN'S POV

Thirty-one days.

That was how long it had been since I woke up in Hana’s empty bed and found four short sentences on the kitchen counter that changed everything I thought I knew about my life.

Thirty-one days since I drove to Brooklyn and sat at the counter of Sunday Morning, unable to answer a single question Simone asked me. Thirty-one days of calling a number that rang four times before going to voicemail. Thirty-one days of her bright warm voice on that recording, unreachable—saying, leave a message, and I’ll get back to you, like a door politely closing in my face.

I had left messages. Multiple. Then I stopped, because hearing myself talk into silence was something I could not handle anymore.

I had sent texts too. I didn’t know if she read them. I didn’t know where she was, what she was doing, whether she was eating, sleeping, or if leaving had hurt her as much as it hurt me. Simone had helped me mail my letters, refusing to tell me where she was.

She had written back twice. Short letters, handwritten, no return address. I had read both of them so many times I didn’t need to unfold them anymore to know exactly what they said. I kept them in my jacket pocket, close to my chest, where I could reach them without thinking.

They were not forgiveness. I understood that. But they were honest. I still don't know why she left, but I will figure it out.

I was not good at it yet. I was learning.

The problem was that learning took time. And time required patience that I was struggling to find, because I was running Calloway Enterprises on four hours of sleep and the energy of a man who had replaced every feeling with a task, and I was running out of tasks.

Marcus had noticed. Marcus noticed everything.

“You look terrible,” he said that morning, setting water on my desk. He was someone who had been my best friend for twelve years.

“Thank you, Marcus.”

He sat across from me. “When did you last eat a real meal?”

I didn’t answer.

“Ethan.”

“I’m fine.”

“No, you're not.” He picked up the Henderson file I had been staring at for forty minutes without reading and set it back down. “She wrote back, though.”

“Twice.”

“That means something.”

“I know it means something.” I picked up my water. “I just don’t know yet if it means enough.”

Marcus was quiet for a moment. “There’s something else I’ve been meaning to talk to you about. The Whitfield proposal. There are some structural inconsistencies I want to go over when you have—”

My phone rang.

I looked at the screen.

I let it ring.

Marcus looked too. Something shifted in his expression. “That’s the fourth time this week.”

“I know.”

“Ethan—”

“I said I know, Marcus.” I put the phone face down on my desk. “I’m not taking that call.”

He looked at me for a moment, his expression cautious, like he had more to say but was choosing not to. Then he stood, picked up his file, and headed to the door.

“The Whitfield inconsistencies,” he said, pausing. “Don’t leave it too long.”

He left.

I turned my phone face up and stared at it until it stopped ringing.

Then I turned it back down and tried to focus.

She arrived at two o’clock.

I had not agreed to see her. My assistant, Clara, appeared in the doorway at five minutes to two, with a grim smile.

“Sloane Whitfield is here,” she said. “She doesn’t have an appointment, but she says—”

“Tell her I’m unavailable.”

Clara hesitated. “She said you’d say that. She asked me to tell you she’ll wait.”

I looked up from my desk.

“She’s been calling,” Clara added. “Every day this week. I’ve been redirecting, but—”

“Send her in,” I said.

Clara’s expression did not change. “Are you sure?”

“Send her in. I want to end this in person.”

Sloane Whitfield had not changed in the ways people usually notice. She was always perfectly put together. Blonde hair, dressed in understated expensive clothing and that smile. She walked into my office like she owned it and sat down across from my desk. I did not stand. I did not offer coffee. I just stared at her.

“Sloane,” I said.

“Ethan.” She smiled, “You’ve been avoiding my calls.”

“I have,” I said. “Deliberately.”

She tilted her head slightly, like she found that funny. “I heard about Hana.”

The room froze. Or maybe it was just me.

“I don’t know what you heard,” I said, keeping my voice level.

“Does it matter?” she leaned forward slightly. “Ethan, we’ve known each other a long time. Long enough for me to say what I’m going to say without sugarcoating it.” She held my gaze, steady. “I have been interested in you since before your wife existed. You made your choice, and I respected it. But she’s gone. And I’m here. I think you know what we could be together is—”

“Stop.”

She stopped.

I stood.

“I’ll say this once,” I said. “Not because you deserve clarity, but because I want there to be no confusion. She is not gone. And whatever happened between her and me, has nothing. Nothing to do with you.”

Sloane looked at me. Something passed over her face.

“The proposal your team submitted,” I continued, “will be reviewed and rejected on its merits, which are thin. Do not come back to this office.”

She stood slowly, picked up her bag, and stopped just inside the doorway.

“She left you, Ethan,” she said quietly. “I just need you to be honest with yourself.”

“Clara will walk you out,” I said.

She left.

I closed the door.

I stood there, hand on the handle, breathing hard.

I picked up my phone.

I called Hana.

Four rings.

You’ve reached Hana. Leave a message and I’ll get back to you.

“It’s me,” I said. “I just—” I stopped. Started again. “I need— I just want to know what happened.” I paused. “Come home. Or don’t. But please, Hana. Just— just pick up the phone.”

I hung up.

I sat at my desk for another three hours and did not retain a single thing I read.

It was raining when I left the building.

Heavy rain, the kind that had been building all day and finally arrived. The city turned grey and wet. Traffic on Fifth Avenue crawled, headlights blurring across the slick pavement. Everyone was going somewhere.

Marcus had texted at six: Still at the office. Call me when you’re heading out. Need to talk about Whitfield.

I replied: Tomorrow.

He sent back: Ethan.

I didn’t reply.

I drove myself home. Sometimes I needed silence. No driver. No one else in the space with me.

The car was quiet except for rain hitting the roof and the low rhythm of the wipers across the windshield.

I thought about what could have made Hana leave all day. Between meetings, phone calls, and after Sloane left.

This is the one time in my adult life I had felt powerless.

And the way I dealt with that powerlessness is by working until I couldn’t feel anything.

I was so deep inside my head that I didn’t notice the light change until it was too late.

I saw the truck, the headlights too bright, horn blaring and impact came before I could react.

The car tilted sideways. Glass shattered.

The world flipped and everywhere turned dark.