My phone, lying on the floor, started ringing. I struggled to reach it and pressed “answer.”
A voice came through the line.
“Miss Quell, your sister passed away last night at 10:58 p.m. despite all rescue efforts. You’re her only family, so please come and take her home.”
All the blood in my body seemed to freeze. My throat tightened so much that I couldn’t say a single word.
Thinking about what Zayn and Natalie did yesterday, my chest felt like it had been cut open—sharp pain spreading through me.
Seven years of love and not once did I get his true heart. Then I didn’t want it anymore.
I picked up my phone and sent him a message:
[Zayn, let’s get a divorce.]
Less than thirty seconds after I sent the message, Zayn called.
He spoke angrily, “Yvonne, you used your parents’ lives to force me into marrying you and now you want a divorce? I’m telling you—keep dreaming!”
My throat felt dry and bitter. “Zayn, I…”
Before I could finish, a sweet, playful voice came from his side of the line.
“Zayn, help me get my underwear.”
My chest tightened painfully.
The call ended with a cold beep-beep and I couldn’t help but let out a bitter, mocking laugh.
When I came out of the hospital morgue, I ran into Zayn.