Dear Ex Wife, Please take me back novel Chapter 151

ATHENA

“What?” I gasp.

I look from left to right and left again.

“Surely there must be a mistake.”

“Nope. It's you, Dr. Dawson. We have that tradition. The one with the most votes represents the hospital at the gala. It's important because we get donations from the Kings foundation.” Ian explains, and I watch him with a suspicious eye.

“Votes by whom?” Isabelle asks, and we all turn to look at Ian.

“The board. They vote anonymously, and it's tradition, so changes can't be changed.”

“Tradition huh?”

“Yes!” Ian claps his hands together, standing like he didn't just ruin my weekend plans.

“Then I'll accompany her.” Zayan says, making Ian turn to face him.

“As what?”

“There has to be something you can give him. Don't they give two invites each year?” Isabelle backs him up.

“They do, so if you can tell me what, Dr. Sinclair will accompany Dr. Dawson, as to this very professional and important gala, please don't let me stop you.”

It's a trap.

Ian doesn't want me to go with anyone who has XY chromosomes.

Which has to be Alex's doing.

I'm sure of it.

I was planning on going on a weekend away with Zayan. I don't want to introduce him to Rayen just yet, so I asked Alex to swap dates, and he said,

“Sure. No problem.”

Just like that. No questions asked.

I should have known it was too good to be true.

Zayan straightens, thoughtful for a moment before he finally says,

“As a doctor at this hospital.”

Ian tilts his head, unimpressed. “Hmm.”

He uncrosses his arms and shakes his head slowly. “I wouldn’t want any rumors spreading about me having favorites, Dr. Sinclair.”

His gaze flicks to me.

“I’ll be accompanying Dr. Dawson myself.”

My jaw nearly drops.

What?

“If anyone else wants to attend,” he continues casually, “feel free to secure your own ticket.”

Zayan stiffens beside me.

I blink at Ian, utterly baffled.

“You’re going with me?”

“Yes, I am. You represent the hospital, and I represent the administration. It only makes sense.”

It doesn’t.

At all.

But I know this isn’t about logic. It's about Alex. And whatever invisible strings he’s yanking from behind the scenes.

Zayan laughs under his breath, low and humorless.

“I guess it can't be helped then.”

“I'm so sorry. We can go next weekend.” I whisper as I squeeze Zayan’s hand.

“Okay! So, if we have that out of the picture, we are dismissed.” Ian claps his hands together, then he walks out.

The room empties slowly, Isabelle mouthing a dramatic “call me” before slipping out.

Zayan lingers, brushing his thumb over my knuckles in silent reassurance.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper again.

I feel so bad.

“It's not your fault,” he says, though his jaw is tight. “We’ll make the next weekend better.”

I nod, but the weight in my chest doesn’t lift.

……

The hospital corridors are quiet by the time I make my way to the ICU floor.

I stop in front of Room 402.

Sloane’s room.

I take a deep breath before pushing the door open.

Five months have passed and she still hasn't shown any sign of waking up. She had only woken up once, but it was so brief that we thought we imagined it. Alex has plans of taking her outside the country if she doesn't improve. But I told him to give me some time.

It’s not ego or anything, but if I don't help her get better and she fails to walk for the rest of her life, it will kill me.

I pull the chair closer to her bed and sit, folding my hands in my lap.

“Hey, Sloane,” I say softly. “I, uh… got nominated for the gala.”

Everything sparkles.

Everything screams you don’t belong here.

I nearly turn back until a tall woman in sleek black approaches me with a welcoming smile and a tray.

“Welcome to La Miroir, Dr. Dawson,” she says warmly, offering me a wine glass. “Would you like white or red?”

“Um…” I blink at her, flustered. “Water is fine.”

She gives a knowing nod and swaps the wine for a sparkling water glass instead. “May I take your bag?”

I hesitate, but she’s already motioning to another woman nearby, who steps forward with gentle hands.

“I’m just here for a quick look,” I murmur.

“Of course,” the first woman says. “Right this way. We’ve arranged a seat for you.”

A seat?

Before I can protest, I’m guided toward a plush white chair in front of a soft runway-style mirror. The lighting overhead is warm, the room quiet except for low classical music playing in the background.

“Someone will model the dresses for you shortly,” she says.

I blink. “Wait, what?”

She pauses, mid-step. “Yes?”

“I thought I was here to browse… Is that a new service? Because, no offense, I’m just here for something simple. Can I see prices first before I waste your time?” I half-laugh, feeling uncomfortable.

The woman just smiles.

She pulls a sleek, black envelope from behind her tablet and hands it to me.

“You won’t be needing prices today, Dr. Dawson.”

My brows pull together. “Why not?”

She opens the envelope and removes a card. It’s matte gold, my name written across the top in elegant cursive.

“You can pick any dress you want. It’s on the house.”

I stare at her.

“I….what?”

“You’ve supported us for so long,” she explains, a genuine smile softening her face. “We wanted to appreciate our long-time clients, so we organized a special gift card giveaway. You were one of the winners. Please pick anything you like.”

I’m speechless.

“Are you serious?”

“Yes ma'am.”