Sebastian was dabbing ointment on Adele’s hand when he suddenly remembered how badly bandaged Polly was back in the room. The contrast hit him hard.
Seeing him lost in thought, Adele’s eyes narrowed slightly, jealousy flickering beneath her fake concern.
“Sebastian, do you think this will scar?” she asked, her eyes red, tears threatening to fall.
“No, don’t worry,” he said softly. “I’ll get you the best dermatologist. It won’t leave a mark.”
Once he finished comforting Adele, it occurred to him to check on Polly again. But when he returned to her hospital room, it was already empty.
His heart sank.
He felt something was off.
He immediately pulled out his phone to call her, but before he could dial, Adele’s voice came from behind him.
“Sebastian, I think I twisted my ankle just now. Can you take a look?”
Sebastian looked back at the empty room. He figured Polly had just gone home early and turned away, kneeling in front of Adele to massage her ankle.
When he got home, he rushed to Polly's room.
But the moment he opened the door, he froze.
The room was nearly bare—too clean, too empty. There wasn’t a single sign of someone still living there.
Gripping the door handle tightly, dozens of thoughts raced through his mind.
'No. She won't leave me. She can't have.'
With that thought in mind, he ran to the housekeeper and asked, “Where’s Polly?”
“She came back, picked up a suitcase, and left,” the servant replied.
'A suitcase? She really left? Where would she even go?' he wondered, panicking.
He thought back to how cold Polly had looked in the hospital. And suddenly, a dreadful weight sank in his chest.
She was mad. She was furious he hadn’t protected her.
He took out his phone and fired off message after message.
[Stop being so dramatic. Adele’s a professional racer. If I hadn’t saved her, she wouldn’t be able to compete again.]
[Polly, you’ve made your point. You really think I have time to coddle you every single day?]
[Come back. I’ll make it up to you, okay? Besides, you’re not even that badly hurt. What are you trying to prove?]
Sitting on the sofa, he lit a cigarette, his face dark with frustration. His long fingers clenched the cigarette tightly, the glow flickering red.
But even after he finished smoking, there was still no response.
Polly hadn’t read any of his messages. Not one.
Irritated, he tossed the cigarette into the trash and typed one last message.