Chapter 169

Chapter 169
Mia

I barely slept, and when I did, my dreams were fragments—Ethan's face on the bridge, Rosa's red-rimmed eyes, the locked study door that wouldn't open no matter how hard I pushed.

By eight-thirty, I was already seated at the coffee shop on Wells Street, nursing a latte I couldn't taste. The morning rush swirled around me: businesspeople with briefcases, mothers with strollers, the ordinary choreography of lives that hadn't just been upended. I envied them.

Julian arrived at exactly nine. He paused in the doorway, scanning the room until he found me, and something in his expression made my stomach drop. He looked like a man about to break a promise.

"Thank you for coming," he said, sliding into the chair across from me. He didn't order anything, didn't even glance at the menu. His hands stayed flat on the table, deliberately still.

"You said it was urgent." I kept my voice steady, though my heart was already racing. "What's going on, Julian?"

He was quiet for a long moment. I watched him wrestle with something internal—loyalty, maybe, or a confidence he was about to betray. When he finally spoke, his words were careful, measured.

"I need to ask you something first. How much do you know about Ethan's legal affairs? His estate planning?"

The question caught me off guard. "His estate planning? I don't—why would I know anything about that?"

Julian's jaw tightened. "So he didn't tell you."

"Tell me what?"

He leaned forward, lowering his voice. "Mia, I can't give you details. I made a promise, and despite everything, I intend to keep most of it. But I can't sit here and watch you suffer in ignorance when the truth is—" He stopped, shook his head. "Ask yourself a question. Why would a man who just reconciled with his wife suddenly start pulling away from your life while simultaneously ensuring you have everything you need?"

The words landed like stones in still water, each one sending ripples through everything I thought I understood.

I thought about Ethan pressing his fingers to his temple. The way he had flinched at bright lights in New York, blaming it on jet lag.

"He's sick," I said. It wasn't a question.

Julian's silence was confirmation enough.

"How sick?"

"That's not my story to tell." His voice was gentle now, almost apologetic. "But I'll say this: whatever he told you, it was a lie. A deliberate one. He's pushing you away, Mia, but not because he stopped loving you."

My hands were shaking. I pressed them flat against the table, mirroring Julian's posture, trying to anchor myself to something solid.

"Then why?"

"Because he's terrified." Julian met my eyes, and I saw real pain there—not romantic, but something deeper. Respect, maybe. Or the particular anguish of watching someone make a terrible mistake. "He thinks he's protecting you. He thinks if he drives you away now, you won't have to watch him—" He caught himself again. "You won't have to go through what he's facing."

What he's facing.

The euphemism hung in the air between us. I thought about the way Ethan had held me on the Brooklyn Bridge, his arms tight around me, his breath warm against my hair. I want you to know that I love you. Whatever happens.

Whatever happens.

"He's dying," I whispered. "Isn't he?"

Julian didn't answer. But his eyes said everything his mouth wouldn't.

"Why are you telling me this?" I managed. "If you promised him—"

"Because some promises are wrong." His voice hardened slightly. "He came to me a week ago. Asked me to—" He stopped, pressed his lips together. "It doesn't matter what he asked. What matters is that he made a choice, and that choice was to remove your agency completely. I told him then that it was cowardice dressed up as sacrifice, and I'm telling you now: you have the right to the truth."

I stared at him, this man who had once confused me with his attention, who had complicated my marriage simply by existing. Now I understood him differently. He wasn't a rival. He was a witness—someone who had seen clearly what I had been too close to recognize.

"Where is he?"

"I don't know exactly. But if you want answers, start with the hospital." Julian's expression flickered.

The floor seemed to tilt beneath me. " Northwestern Memorial?"

Julian spread his hands. "I've told you everything I can. The rest has to come from him."

I was already reaching for my coat when Julian spoke again.

"Mia." I paused, looked back. His face was serious, almost solemn. "Whatever you find out—whatever happens next—I want you to know something. He's a fool. A stubborn, emotionally stunted fool who doesn't know how to ask for help. But he loves you. More than he's ever loved anything in his life. That much was obvious the moment I saw him look at you."

I didn't know what to say to that. So I just nodded, once, and walked out into the October morning.

---

The cab ride to Northwestern Memorial took twenty minutes. I spent every second of it staring out the window, watching the city slide past, trying to assemble the fragments Julian had given me into something coherent.

Ethan was sick. Seriously sick. And instead of telling me, instead of letting me stand beside him, he had constructed an elaborate lie designed to make me hate him.

Because he thinks that's easier. Because he thinks my hatred is better than my grief.

The realization hit me with the force of physical impact. All those years of emotional walls, all that practiced distance—this was the ultimate expression of it. He was trying to die alone rather than burden me with his dying.

You idiot, I thought. You absolute, noble, self-destructive idiot.

The hospital's private wing was quiet when I arrived. I gave my name at the reception desk and watched the nurse's expression flicker with something that might have been recognition.

"Room 412," she said. "But Mrs. Wentworth—"

I didn't wait to hear the rest. I was already walking, my heart hammering against my ribs, my heels clicking against the polished floor with a determination I didn't quite feel.

The door to room 412 was closed. I took a breath, reached for the handle—

And found an empty room.

The bed was unmade, sheets tangled, IV stand still in place. Medical monitors sat dark and silent. But the man who should have been lying there was gone.

"He checked himself out this morning."

I turned. A young doctor stood in the doorway, clipboard in hand, looking at me with professional sympathy.

"Out? Against medical advice?"

"His friend handled the paperwork. They mentioned something about a flight." The doctor consulted his notes. "I'm sorry, Mrs. Wentworth. I don't have any additional information."

A flight. He had run. Even now, even after everything, he was still running.

I pulled out my phone and dialed Marcus's number. Straight to voicemail. I tried Ethan's. Same result.

For a moment, I just stood there in the empty room, surrounded by the evidence of his absence, feeling the weight of everything I didn't know pressing down on my chest.

Then I straightened my shoulders and walked out.

He could run as far as he wanted. He could push me away, lie to me, try to protect me from truths he thought I couldn't bear. But I was done being the one left in the dark. I was done letting other people decide what I was strong enough to handle.

I was going to find him. And when I did, he was going to tell me everything—every secret, every fear, every misguided sacrifice.