My Darling Ex-Wife Is Unaware I’m Rich

Chapter 13: Secrets In The Smoke

James lingered at Emma’s side until the moon began its descent. She clung to his arm, her voice soft and pleading.

“Aren’t you staying the night with me?”

Though he hesitated, her glassy eyes made him falter. With a forced smile, he sat back down, intending to leave once she drifted off. Her breathing eventually grew shallow and steady, but James found himself rooted in place.

The night outside pressed against the window like a silent spectator, and with every tick of the clock, James felt his resolve weaken. Guilt gnawed at him, an emotion he couldn’t quite define, tangled between duty and something darker.

Elsewhere, outside the hospital. Fiona Hawthorn stepped into the cold embrace of the night, her heels clicking faintly against the pavement. She lit a cigarette with shaking hands, taking a long drag that filled her lungs with smoke and a fleeting sense of calm.

“You know smoking is prohibited here, right?”

The voice startled her, deep and smooth like velvet over steel. She turned to see a man approaching, tall and dashing. His sleeves were rolled up, his tie loosened, and his scent screamed,Rich, a mix of spice and cedar seemed to cut through the night air.

“I’m sorry,” Fiona stammered, the cigarette slipping from her lips. She quickly stomped it out, the embarrassment pooling in her cheeks.

“Relax.” The man’s lips quirked into a smile. “I won’t tell if you don’t.” He held out a slim silver case, offering her another cigarette.

For a moment, Fiona hesitated. Then, as if drawn by his confidence, she accepted. He lit it for her, his lighter clicking softly in the quiet.

“Marcus Thorn,” he said, introducing himself with a slight bow of his head. “May I know your name?”

Fiona exhaled a plume of smoke, a small smile tugging at her lips. “Fiona. Fiona Hawthorn.”

Marcus chuckled, the sound warm and rich. “Thorn and Hawthorn. We might be related.”

Fiona found herself laughing, an unfamiliar lightness creeping into her chest. “Maybe. But I doubt it.”

Their conversation flowed easily, the shadows around them deepening as the night wore on. Marcus’s eyes lingered on hers, his gaze intense yet inviting. His compliments, subtle and well-placed—made her blush. It had been years since anyone, least of all her husband, had looked at her that way.

“If you don’t mind me asking,” Marcus began, taking the cigarette from her fingers and placing it between his lips, “who are you here for? You’re far too poised and well dressed to be working here.”

Fiona smiled, but her tone turned somber. “You’re right. I don’t work here. My daughter had an accident a few weeks ago, so I’m here for her. She’s doing much better now. And you?”

“A friend of mine,” Marcus replied after a pause, his expression guarded. “If I can call him that.”

“Oh!” Fiona exclaimed softly, a spark of recognition in her eyes. “You’re one of the men who brought in the so-called VVIP, aren’t you?”

Marcus’s lips twitched into a smirk. “You’ve been paying attention.”

Their conversation shifted to lighter topics as they finished their cigarettes, but Marcus was careful not to reveal too much. He steered the focus back to Fiona, listening intently as she spoke about her life, her daughter, and fragments of her past.

When the cigarette burned down to the filter, Marcus reached for his phone. “May I call you sometime?”

Fiona hesitated, glancing down at the device in his hand. Her instincts screamed at her to decline, but the warmth in her chest overruled her reason. She gave him her number.

As Marcus walked away, she watched his silhouette disappear into the glow of the hospital lights. A flicker of guilt tugged at her, but the feeling of being seen, truly seen, lingered far longer.

When she returned to her daughter’s ward, Fiona found her sleeping soundly. The chair where James had been sitting was empty.

She turned to the nurse stationed nearby. “Where’s James?”

The nurse glanced at her clipboard. “He left about an hour ago.”

Fiona pressed her lips into a thin line, irritation sparking in her chest. But she didn’t voice her frustration, not wanting to wake her daughter.

Meanwhile, in another wing of the hospital, Maxwell Carter’s eyes fluttered open, his vision blurry and his head pounding. The faint beeping of monitors filled the room, and the faces of strangers hovered above him, their expressions a mix of curiosity and concern.

“Where am I?” he croaked, his voice hoarse.

“You’re safe,” a doctor assured him. “You’ve been unconscious for a few hours. We’re monitoring your vitals.”

A nurse left the room to summon Marcus and Alfred, and within minutes, they entered. Marcus’s expression was calm, but Maxwell caught the flicker of something else, relief? Worry?

“You’re awake. Good,” Marcus said.

“What happened to me?” Maxwell asked, his voice gaining strength.

The lead doctor stepped forward, clipboard in hand. “Your body experienced a sudden surge in hormone production. It’s... unusual, but it appears that an external stimulus triggered dormant biological processes in your system. The overload caused your nervous system to shut down temporarily.”

Maxwell frowned, trying to piece together the fragments of his memory. “The last thing I remember... there was a red door. I touched it, and then everything went black.”

Marcus’s jaw tightened, his composed façade cracking slightly. “A red door? Are you sure?”

“Yes,” Maxwell insisted, sitting up straighter. “Why? What’s the big deal?”

Marcus exchanged a glance with Alfred, who left the room briefly to issue orders to the men stationed outside. When he returned, the other doctors had been dismissed, leaving only the three of them.

“There hasn’t been a red door in that house for over twenty years,” Marcus said finally. “It was replaced with an oak door after your mother’s death.”

Maxwell’s pulse quickened, a strange heat blooming in his chest. “So what are you saying? That I imagined it? Stop keeping secrets from me!”

His voice rose, sharper than he intended. Marcus flinched but recovered quickly, his expression softening into something almost apologetic.

“All right,” Marcus said, lowering his gaze. “But to understand, you need to hear the truth, starting from the night you became Maxwell Carter, the night we lost your mother.”

Maxwell’s breath hitched. “Tell me everything.”

The room fell into a tense silence, broken only by the faint hum of machines. As Marcus opened his mouth to speak, the door creaked open slightly, and a shadow moved just outside.

Someone was listening.