Just Because of the Passenger Seat
At one in the morning, a cold rain lashed the floor-to-ceiling windows outside the operating room. I finished the last emergency surgery of my shift and strode toward the hospital entrance. My fiancé Rhys Crawford's black Range Rover was parked at the curb.
His executive assistant, Stella Miller, was in the passenger seat.
She was wrapped in Rhys's cashmere coat—my favorite of his—and clutched a custom thermos engraved with our initials: S&R. When she saw me approach, she lowered the window just enough to speak.
"Savannah, I'm so sorry," she said, her voice soft. "My blood sugar is low, and I get terribly carsick in the back."
Rhys, in the driver's seat, didn't move.
"Stella just had a check-up; she's not feeling well. Just be considerate and take the back seat."
I gripped the door handle, the sharp, clean scent of iodine from my recent disinfection still clinging to my skin.
"So, where am I supposed to sit?"
Rhys frowned.
"In the back."
Stella immediately turned, murmuring gently, "Savannah, why don't I just give you the seat? I can manage."
She said she would move, but her hands only tightened her seatbelt.
Rhys's voice hardened.
"Savannah, don't make this difficult for her. She's not well."
I nodded slowly.
"Fine."
I gently closed the car door.
Rhys assumed I would walk around to the back. Instead, I turned and strode back through the hospital's main entrance.
Five minutes later, I typed out a message:
We're over, Rhys. The wedding is off.