Chapter 148 Beyond The Heart Wall

Chapter 148 Beyond The Heart Wall
Christina: POV

I couldn't help giggling as I sent another explicit text to Jane, describing Patrick's physical attributes in such graphic detail that I knew she'd be mortified.

[You have NO IDEA how good his body is! Those abs are ROCK SOLID! Former special forces guys are just built different...]

Her reply came almost instantly: [Christina, LANGUAGE! This is my work phone...]

I laughed and kept typing even more provocative details. 

I could practically see Jane at her pristine desk at Quinn Global, desperately trying to hide her phone screen from passing colleagues while important documents lay scattered before her.

My phone rang. 

Jane's name flashed on the screen.

"How's married life treating you, Mrs. Quinn?" I answered, trying to sound innocent.

"Christina Parker!" Jane's voice was a mixture of exasperation and laughter. 

"You nearly made me spill coffee all over Ethan's acquisition documents!"

"Oh, the tragedy," I replied, stretching lazily in my office chair. 

"Imagine the headlines: 'Designer's Dirty Texts Destroy Million-Dollar Deal.'"

Jane sighed, but I could tell she wasn't really angry. 

"Speaking of inappropriate things, we need to discuss that 'gift' you gave us at the wedding."

I couldn't help but laugh. 

"What? Manhattan marriages need a little spice. I was just fulfilling my maid of honor duties by providing necessary... equipment."

"You need to stop watching those HBO romantic comedies," Jane groaned. 

"Life isn't a streaming series, Christina."

"Too bad," I replied, feeling a rare moment of lightness. 

"I was really hoping to be the Samantha of our friend group."

Jane's laughter filled my ear, warm and familiar. 

"So," Jane's voice suddenly turned serious, "Patrick Brown. Are you finally going to tell me the whole story?"

I took a deep breath, feeling an unusual vulnerability creep up my spine. 

With Jane, my defense mechanisms always seemed to malfunction.

"Remember my misdiagnosis last year?" I asked quietly.

"Of course," Jane's voice softened. 

"That horrible hospital told you had late-stage lymphoma. Gave you a death sentence. I was heartbroken over it for a long time."

"Yeah," I stared at the ceiling, memories flooding back. 

"When they said I had six months to live, I used my savings to buy a secondhand Jeep Cherokee and a one-way ticket to Colorado."

"You never told me this," Jane's voice held a hint of reproach.

"Because I thought I was dying, Jane. I didn't want pity, didn't want tears. I just wanted... if I only had one last chapter, at least I could have one perfect memory, right?"

I closed my eyes, the images of Aspen crystal clear in my mind—the pristine snow peaks, the scent of pine.

"Then I met him," I continued, my voice softening involuntarily. 

"Patrick wasn't the stern ex-special forces guy you saw at the wedding. He was... gentle, Jane. I've seen him make hot milk for me at 3 AM because I couldn't sleep."

The line went quiet for a moment, then Jane asked softly, "So you fell for him?"

The question cut like a knife, straight to the core I'd been avoiding.

"Maybe," I tried to sound nonchalant. 

"But then a few weeks later I found out the diagnosis was wrong. I wasn't dying after all."

"And you just left?" Jane's voice was tinged with disapproval. 

"Without any explanation?"

I felt a familiar shame wash over me. 

"I couldn't deal. I was afraid he might be serious, and I couldn't be responsible for that."

"That's pretty shitty, Chris," Jane said bluntly.

"I know," I admitted, surprising myself with my honesty. 

"I'm a hypocrite. I always criticize men for treating women like objects, but didn't I just use Patrick as my perfect pre-death experience?"

Silence hung between us, then Jane asked, "So what happened at the wedding? Did you guys make up?"

I couldn't suppress the smile that crept onto my face, even though Jane couldn't see it. 

"I agreed to give it a shot. Actually... I'm moving in with him."

"Wow," Jane sounded genuinely surprised. 

"That's fast."

"His Upper East Side apartment is three times the size of mine," I quickly explained. 

"24-hour doorman, rooftop terrace. This is Manhattan, Jane. You know how brutal real estate is."

Jane laughed. 

"So is it true love or just for his Porsche 911?"

"Well, since I can't resist that handsome face, why not enjoy the luxury car and penthouse that come with it?" I joked, but we both knew the truth was far more complicated.

I heard rustling papers on Jane's end. 

"Sounds like you two have already... rekindled things?"

"Jane Mitchell! Sorry, Mrs. Quinn," I feigned shock. 

"Is this what marriage has done to you? Turned you into a gossip?"

"Shut up," Jane laughed. 

"I'm just concerned about your happiness."

Our conversation drifted to lighter topics, teasing each other about our love lives. 

But amid the laughter, a heavy thought suddenly struck me, causing my voice to drop.

"Jane, there's something you should know," I said, feeling my throat tighten. 

"I can't have children."

Silence fell on the other end. 

I could imagine Jane holding her breath.

"Teenage family 'accident,'" I continued, struggling to keep my voice steady. 

"It left me unable to ever become a mother."

"Chris..." Jane's voice was full of concern and sympathy.

"No, don't," I cut her off quickly. 

"No pity necessary. It actually saves me a lot of trouble, right? Can you imagine me with a kid? Disaster waiting to happen."

I forced a laugh, but it sounded hollower than I intended. 

Jane seemed to sense something, but before she could say anything, I swiftly ended the conversation.

"Oh, look at the time. I've got an important meeting at the studio. Design review stuff."

"Christina..."

"Talk later, Jane. Give Noah a kiss from me!"

I hung up and leaned back in my Italian leather office chair, staring unfocused at the LED lights on the ceiling.

Memories washed over me like a toxic tide—that damp, dark industrial town in Pennsylvania, my drunk father, my mother who ignored my pain to protect my brother. 

The kitchen knife, the crude operating table in that backstreet clinic, and every detail of that night that changed my life forever.

I closed my eyes, trying to banish these persistent shadows, but they seemed etched into the very core of my being, indelible.

Evening found me trudging back to my apartment building, exhausted. 

I noticed a package by the door. 

As I bent to pick it up, I began rummaging through my bag for my keys.

"Shit," I muttered, realizing they were missing. 

Perfect end to a long day—locked out of my own apartment.

Just as I was considering calling the building super, my phone vibrated. 

A message from Patrick:

[Home yet? I have your keys. Be there in 30 minutes.]

I stared at the screen in surprise, confused and slightly alarmed. 

How did he have my keys?

[Okay, I'll wait downstairs.] I replied, then leaned against the marble column in the entryway, feeling both anticipation and apprehension.

Thirty minutes later, Patrick appeared at the corner, immaculate in his suit, keys dangling from his hand. 

He walked toward me with confident strides, each step making my heart beat faster.

When he finally stood before me, I looked at the familiar keys in his hand and asked the question that represented both trust and boundaries:

"How do you have my apartment keys?"