Page 66 of The Wrong Husband (The Davenports #6)

Phoenix

"Dr. Hamilton?" The receptionist at the doctors’ station in the ER looks at me in surprise. "Don’t you have the day off?"

It’s been ten days since I returned from my cut-short honeymoon.

Ten days since my husband left on his mission.

And yes, it’s my day off, but rather than stay home and stress about the safety of my husband’s assignment I decided to come into work.

No, I don’t plan to continue with this bad habit when my husband is around.

Besides, no way would Connor let me work without taking proper breaks.

Unlike my relationship with my ex, I don’t want to hide my new status. I want the world to know I’m married to Connor.

"It’s Dr. Davenport now,” I remind her.

It feels amazing to say that. Makes me feel closer to Connor to share his surname.

Yes, I worked hard for my career, and now it has his name on it. But if it weren’t for Connor, I wouldn’t have come to grips with my past. It’s thanks to him; I've been able to face the trauma of what happened. I'm a new person.

I’m happy to take his name. It doesn’t take away from my accomplishments or makes me less of a feminist. I’m still me, with all my faults and insecurities. I’m also deeply in love with a man who understands me in a way I never thought another person could.

“Of course, my bad,” she checks the rota, “and I see you asked to be added to the schedule.”

I nod. “I asked to come in today because my husband is away on a work trip. Didn’t want to stay home in an empty apartment.”

Her gaze grows wistful. “Ah, young love.” The phone on her desk rings. With an apologetic look, she reaches for it.

I pivot and head into the triage area. For the next six hours, I’m busy, attending to cases.

A pregnant woman suffering from gas and worried she was miscarrying—which she wasn’t, thankfully. An elderly woman with stomach pain and a diagnosis of gallstones. A man suffering from a panic attack.

Luckily, none of them were of the life and death variety. But they kept me so busy that I didn’t have time to think of my husband, far away in some country where his life is at risk. How do wives and loved ones of those in the military put up with this kind of distance and waiting?

It takes a special kind of person who's resilient enough to go about their day-to-day life and live with such a high degree of uncertainty when someone they care for is putting their life on the line for them and their country. Thankfully, the rush of patients slows down to a trickle, so I’m able to take a breather.

I head down to the staff canteen. It’s also frequented by guests of patients. And not very crowded, for a change.

I grab a coffee and a sandwich, barely noticing what I’ve picked. I head to a table tucked away at the back of the space. The moment I sit, I yank out my phone and check my messages.

There’s one from the Prime Minister’s Chief of Staff.

I freeze. My pulse spikes. My vision narrows. Oh my God. Oh my God.

Connor sent off that email with my proposal, but I’ve been so lost in missing him, aching for his voice, his arms, his impossible arrogance, that I almost forgot about it.

I click on the message. My breath shudders out. My eyes skim the first line—then the second.

The Chief of Staff, thanks me for the proposal. Thanks. Me. She also confirms they’ve already initiated contact with the relevant decision makers in the health service. Archway Hospital’s ER is deemed critical to the community—and will continue to operate for the foreseeable future.

I can’t breathe. Relief floods my limbs like I’ve just been pulled from drowning. My shoulders shake as I clutch the phone to my chest.

A sound escapes my throat. Half gasp, half sob. Tears sting my lashes. I want to scream. Laugh. Cry. All at once.

“We did it, honey.” I press a hand to my chest. “We. Did. It.”

I calm myself, then open the message app and type as fast as I can, my thumbs flying. I send the news to my husband. My Connor.

Who’s managed to message me every day since he left, using a burner phone to keep the rebels off his trail.

I press send.

Then draw in deep breaths and let the emotions wash over me—gratitude, elation a sense of being overwhelmed.

We saved the ER. Together. Connor and me.

It’s been ten days since he left. A few days ago, he warned me he’d be out of communication range.

He also said the mission was reaching a critical stage, so it wouldn’t be long now until he’d be done and, hopefully, on his way back.

Meanwhile, I’ve started the process of renting out my apartment.

It’s a way to keep myself busy, so I don’t spend every moment missing my husband.

I've moved all of my stuff into his apartment.

It made me feel closer to him to be surrounded by his things and to sleep in his bed, surrounded by bedclothes that smell of him.

A voice interrupts my thoughts, "Phe?"

I smile and jump up. "Zoey, what are you doing here?”

“We haven’t seen you since you got married.” My friend reaches me. “And knowing you must have gone straight back to work, we figured it was best we come visit you here." I hold out my arms, and she crushes me in a hug.

"We’re so glad we caught you on a break.” Harper elbows Zoey aside and hugs me.

The faint scent of tomatoes laced with oregano fills my senses. "Mmm, you smell like pasta sauce."

Harper grimaces. "The boss made me cook it over and over again, until I got it right. That was ten days ago. Not that it ever reached his standards.” She tosses her head.

"I understand why he did it. He’s a perfectionist. That’s why he’s so successful.

But I swear, I’ll never get the smell out of my skin. ”

Then a flush creeps up her cheeks.

“No offense.”

Of course, she’s talking about James. I’m not blind to my brother’s faults. "None taken."

"Another one bites the dust, huh?" As always, Grace is impeccably dressed in a designer pantsuit and a single string of pearls, with her hair pulled back in a French chignon. She looks totally out of place among the standard-issue clothing many of the occupants at the other tables are wearing.

Not that anyone pays us the slightest bit of attention. When medics take a break, you better believe, they’re too busy catching up on their personal lives… And gossip amongst the staff, of course.

"Did you come straight from the studio?" I ask.

"Had to see you and congratulate you." She squeezes my shoulder.

"In case you were wondering, we heard from Skylar that you cut your honeymoon short.” Zoey adds.

Clearly, the Davenport clan have their own established lines of communication, and since the girls know many of them, it's to be expected that they'd know of my whereabouts.

Strangely, it doesn’t feel invasive. If anything, it feels…safe. Like a web of quiet protection. Unlike the gossip at work, which always seems to grow legs and twist the truth, the Davenports seem to share information with one purpose: looking out for each other.

It’s comforting. Especially now—with Connor gone and off the grid. No updates. No messages. No way to know if he’s safe. I feel so helpless… If it weren’t for the Davenports I don’t know what I’d do. I didn’t expect to feel this…held. Not by a family that isn’t mine.

Or maybe it’s just that I never gave my own family a chance .

If I had confided more in James and in my friends, they’d have done everything in their power to help me.

And I'm coming to realize, even my parents would do anything for me. I didn’t feel like I could trust anyone. And that’s on me. But no more.

I’m done letting old wounds dictate how I show up. I’ll face my fears, not bury them. I’ll do the work. Starting now.

Whatever I’m feeling must show on my face, because Zoey slides into the seat beside me and gently squeezes my shoulder.

“Oh, honey, are you okay?”

Harper pulls up a chair on my other side. “What’s going on, Phe?”

“Do you want something else?” Grace glances at my half-eaten sandwich and barely touched coffee. “A fresh cup?”

Their concern wraps around me like a blanket. And it’s exactly what I need—this warmth, this gentle attention. Especially when worry is clawing at my chest, refusing to let go.

This is supposed to be Connor’s final trip. He promised. But I can’t shake this feeling. This tightness in my ribs. This dread pooling in my gut.

He’s done this many times. He’s trained. Experienced. Careful. So what, if he’s going to a conflict zone. He knows what he’s doing. He’ll be fine.

He has to be.

I tap my chest, trying to rub away the panic pressing against my rib cage. Then take a breath and manage a smile.

“I’m okay. Really. But thank you.” I nod toward another empty chair. “Why don’t you sit? I have something to tell all of you.”

Grace settles in, crossing her legs. Zoey leans forward slightly. Harper looks at me with curiosity and a touch of worry in her eyes. “What is it?”

I look at their faces and steel myself, “I told you I broke up with Drew.”

The nod.

“What I didn’t mention was that he died in a cycling accident six months ago.”

“What?” Harper slaps her hand over her mouth.

Zoey’s eyes widen in shock. “What are you talking about?”

Only Grace seems more contemplative than surprised.

Trust her to be a few steps ahead of me. I lower my chin and study her. “You were expecting me to say something like this?”

“Not that he’s dead no. But yeah, I wondered if there was something you weren’t telling us.”

“I should have told you guys. But his accident took place the same day I broke up with him. I’m afraid, I blamed myself for it.”

“Oh, Phe.” Harper leans over and wraps her arm about my shoulder. “I’m so sorry.”

“You do know you’re not responsible for what happened, right?” Zoey holds my gaze.