Last Flight Home

The fragile calm we were maintaining lasted only until Adrian appeared.

He was dressed in a glaring white suit, his pale, gaunt face making him look almost ghostlike. His gaze cut straight through the crowd and locked onto Clara.

Then, in full view of everyone, he rushed forward and grabbed her arm.

Tears streamed down his face. His voice was not loud, but every word rang out clearly, trembling with raw emotion.

"Dr. Miller! You once said I was the person who needed understanding more than anyone you'd ever met! Why are you abandoning me now? Is it because you have a family now, because you have a child, so I've become an unnecessary burden? Or is it because Mr. Vance can't tolerate my existence?"

The entire room fell silent.

All eyes turned toward me like spotlights, filled with shock, curiosity, and a quiet kind of pity.

Clara was completely stunned.

A moment later, instinct seemed to take over as she slipped into professional mode, her voice gentle and calming.

"Adrian, please don't do this. Calm down. This isn't the right place. Let's talk somewhere else."

I stood there as if stripped bare, every last piece of dignity crushed into the dust by the two of them.

In the end, it was the hospital administrators–faces dark with anger–who signaled the security guards to remove him.

He struggled as they dragged him away, twisting around to stare at Clara, his voice breaking as he shouted:

"Clara! Without you, I'll die! You promised you'd never give up on me!"

The drive home was suffocatingly silent.

Only the low hum of the engine and the roaring sound of blood pounding in my ears filled the car.

Clara's face was deathly pale. One hand clutched her stomach tightly. Her lips trembled as if she wanted to say something, but no words came out.

Suddenly, she groaned and curled inward.

"Clara?" My heart lurched.

Cold sweat appeared on her forehead as she whispered shakily, "My stomach, it hurts."

I looked down.

On the hem of her light-colored dress, a small but glaring patch of bright red blood was spreading.

"Hospital. Now."

In the emergency department, the doctor's expression turned grave after examining her.

"She needs to be admitted immediately for pregnancy stabilization. The mother must not experience any more emotional stress."

Clara was wheeled into a hospital room and laid onto a stark white bed, her face drained of all color.

Standing beside the bed, watching her closed eyes and the way her hand instinctively guarded her lower abdomen, a cold emptiness spread through my chest.

What exactly was I–and this family–to her?

…

On the third day of her hospitalization, Clara's condition finally stabilized a little.

She grew quiet, often staring blankly at the ceiling, one hand resting protectively over her stomach.

"Julian," she said hoarsely one afternoon, "when I'm discharged, let's leave this place. We'll move to another city, alright? I'll finish handing over all my work, and I'll never see him again."

I did not reply.

I heard promises like this too many times before.

That afternoon, my phone screen suddenly lit up.

A message from an unfamiliar number appeared.

"Mr. Vance, guess what? If I walk onto the rooftop right now, do you think your Dr. Miller would abandon your child just to come save me? How about we make it a bet?"

Attached was a photo.

A wrist wrapped in bandages. And in the background–clearly visible–the corner of the hospital rooftop.

It was Adrian.

A chill shot up from the soles of my feet.

This was a blatant provocation. A declaration of war.

Almost the moment I finished reading the message, the phone beside Clara's pillow began to ring.

She answered it.

After hearing only a few words, she suddenly sat upright, her voice rising in alarm.

"What? The rooftop?! I'll be right–"

She stopped mid-sentence.

"No, I can't, but-"