Free Web NovelChapter 348: Until We Know For Certain
Franz was in the middle of a scene when his phone buzzed.
He ignored it. He always ignored it during filming. The device was set to silent, tucked into the pocket of his costume, and when it vibrated against his hip he didn’t flinch. He was Noah Hart on set, and Noah Hart didn’t take calls when the cameras were rolling. The scene was a hushed one—a conversation between his character and a patient, the kind of intimate moment that required focus. He delivered his lines. The other actor responded. The director called for another take.
His phone buzzed again. And again.
Between takes, he pulled it from his pocket. Three missed calls. All from Gio.
A cold sensation spread through his chest, cold and spreading. Gio never called him. They communicated through Arianne, through schedules, through the unspoken understanding of two men who loved the same woman in different ways. If Gio was calling him directly, something had happened to her.
He stepped away from the set and called back. Gio answered on the first ring.
"It’s Arianne. She collapsed. She’s unconscious. The ambulance is on the way."
The noise of the set—the crew adjusting lights, the murmur of extras, the distant clatter of equipment—faded to a dull roar and then to nothing at all. Franz stood motionless, the phone pressed to his ear, the words repeating in his mind like a loop he couldn’t escape. Collapsed. Unconscious. Ambulance.
"Where is she?" His voice came out steady. He didn’t know how. ƒree𝑤ebnσvel.com
"Rochefort Group emergency services took her. She’s being admitted to the hospital now. I’m with her—I’m in the ambulance. I couldn’t—I don’t know what caused it. She was fine, and then she wasn’t. She just collapsed."
"I’m coming."
He hung up before Gio could respond. His hands were trembling. He looked down at them as if they belonged to someone else—the fingers that had been steady moments ago, delivering lines, gesturing naturally, now shaking so badly he could barely grip the phone.
He found Director Yang near the monitors, reviewing the last take. The director looked up when Franz approached, and whatever he saw in Franz’s face made his expression shift immediately from professional focus to concern.
"Noah. What’s wrong?"
"There’s been a family emergency." Franz’s voice was controlled, but only barely. "I need to leave. I need to reschedule my scenes. I’m sorry—I know this is unprofessional—"
"Go." Director Yang didn’t hesitate. He’d worked with Noah Hart for two seasons and past films. He knew this man—his reliability, his dedication, the way he never missed a call time and never left a scene unfinished. If Noah was asking to leave mid-production, the emergency was real.
"We’ll reshoot your scenes later. Family comes first. Go."
"Thank you." The words came out rough, scraped raw. "Thank you. I’ll make it up to you."
"You don’t need to make up anything. Just go."
Franz turned. Monica was already there, her bag in her hand, her keys ready. She’d seen his face from across the set and known, the way she always knew when something was wrong. She’d been with him for years: through the Miranda Kline disaster, through the club fight, through every crisis that had threatened his career and his privacy. She had never seen him look like this.
"Drive," he said, pressing the keys into her hand. "I can’t—I don’t trust myself behind the wheel right now."
Monica took the keys without question. "What happened?"
"Arianne collapsed. She’s at the hospital. Gio is with her, but he doesn’t know what caused it. No one knows anything yet."
They were already walking toward the parking lot, their footsteps echoing in the corridor. The set faded behind them: the lights, the cameras, the carefully constructed world of the hospital drama that suddenly felt absurdly trivial compared to the real hospital where his wife was lying unconscious.
The drive was two hours under normal conditions. Monica made it in just over one, her hands steady on the wheel, her eyes fixed on the road. She drove at the maximum speed limit, never exceeding it, never risking the delay of being pulled over. Franz sat in the passenger seat, his phone clutched in his hand, calling Gio’s number over and over. Each time, the call went to voicemail. Each time, he hung up and tried again.
Monica watched him from the corner of her eye. His face was ashen. His hands hadn’t stopped shaking. He was wearing his costume from set, a white coat over a dark shirt, the clothes of a doctor who didn’t exist. The irony wasn’t lost on her. He played a man who saved lives, and now he was helpless to do anything except sit in a car and wait.
"What did Gio say?" she asked. Her voice was calm, steady, the voice she used when something was terribly wrong and she needed to keep him grounded. "Before she collapsed. Was she sick?"
"I don’t think so." Franz’s voice was hollow. "I haven’t—I haven’t had enough time with her lately. I come home late and leave early. She’s always asleep when I arrive. She curls against me in the dark, but she doesn’t wake up. I haven’t really seen her. Not awake. Not present. Not in weeks." He pressed his palm against his forehead. "I should have noticed. I should have been there more. I should have—"
"You couldn’t have known."
"I should have noticed something."
Monica was silent for a moment. Her mind was working, turning over the pieces of information she had. Arianne collapsing. The fatigue Franz described. The weeks of coming home late and finding her already asleep. A woman who never stopped, who ran a company and raised two children and fought battles most people couldn’t imagine, suddenly unable to stay conscious through the evening.
A thought surfaced. A possibility. She opened her mouth, then closed it.
"Oh!"
Franz looked at her. "What?"
"I don’t—" She shook her head. "It’s probably nothing. I shouldn’t speculate. I don’t want to say anything until we know for certain."
"Monica. What?"
"Nothing. I could be wrong. I’m probably wrong." She tightened her grip on the steering wheel and pressed the accelerator just slightly. "Let’s just get to the hospital. The doctors will tell us what’s happening."
Franz stared at her for a moment longer. Then he turned back to his phone and called Gio again. Voicemail. He didn’t leave a message. He just hung up and stared at the screen, his reflection ghostly in the dark glass. ƒrēewebnoѵёl.cσm
The hospital was part of the Rochefort Group network, private and secure, the kind of facility where high-profile patients could be treated without the press catching wind of it. The emergency services had brought Arianne here for her privacy. The VIP ward was on the top floor, accessible only by a private elevator with restricted access.
Franz was out of the car before Monica had fully stopped. He didn’t wait for her. He strode through the lobby, past the front desk where a nurse looked up and recognized him, Noah Hart the actor, here in their hospital, his face pale and his eyes wild, and into the elevator. Monica caught up with him just as the doors closed.
The VIP ward was hushed. Low lighting. Sterile corridors. The particular hush of a place where serious things happened behind closed doors.
Gio was outside Arianne’s room.
He was pacing. He’d been pacing for over an hour, back and forth, back and forth, the length of the corridor marked by his footsteps. His suit was rumpled, the jacket discarded somewhere, his tie loosened. His hair was disheveled. His usual composure, the mask of professional efficiency, had cracked at the edges.
When he saw Franz, he stopped. Took in the sight of him: disheveled, pale, wearing his white coat from set, his hair coming loose from its tie. Two men, both of them barely holding themselves together, meeting in a hospital corridor.
"Where is she?" Franz grabbed Gio’s shoulders. His grip was too tight, but he couldn’t moderate it. "What happened? Is she—"
"She’s inside." Gio’s voice was steady, but there was a tremor beneath it. "The doctors are still with her. No one has come out yet except the staff running lab tests. They’ve taken blood. They’re running diagnostics. We’re waiting for results."
"How long has she been in there?"
"Over an hour. They haven’t told me anything yet."
"What happened before she collapsed?" Franz released Gio’s shoulders, his hands dropping to his sides. "You said she was fine and then she wasn’t. Was she sick? Was she—"
"I don’t know." Gio’s jaw tightened. "She’s been tired for weeks. Unfocused. She fell asleep in her office this afternoon—in the middle of the day. I asked her if she was sick. She said no. She said it was just the long hours. I should have pushed harder. I should have made her see someone weeks ago, before it got to this point."
"It’s not your fault."
"I was there. I watched her decline and I didn’t do anything."
"You did everything you could. You were there when she collapsed. You caught her." Franz’s voice was rough. "You called the ambulance. You got her here. Don’t blame yourself."
Gio didn’t answer. He resumed his pacing, his footsteps echoing in the empty corridor. Monica had positioned herself near the wall, her arms crossed, her expression thoughtful. She was turning over whatever thought had made her exclaim in the car, but she didn’t voice it.
Franz sank into the chair against the wall. His legs wouldn’t hold him anymore. He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, his hands clasped in front of him, and stared at the closed door.
Behind that door, his wife was lying in a hospital bed. The doctors were running tests. No one knew what was wrong. No one could tell him if she was going to be all right.
He thought about the morning he’d left for filming, standing in the kitchen at dawn, his arms around her from behind. She’d made coffee. She’d been wearing his sweater. He’d kissed her forehead and told her he loved her, and she’d said "I know," and he’d walked out the door assuming he’d see her again that night.
Those weeks played back now: the late returns, the early departures, the way she was always asleep when he climbed into bed. He thought about the guilt that had been gnawing at him for days, the sense that he was missing something, that he should be paying closer attention, that the woman he loved was fading in front of him and he was too busy to notice.
He thought about the ring on his finger. The matching band on hers. The promise they’d made to each other in a small chapel a year and a half ago, when she’d signed her name as Arianne Summers Rochefort and changed both their lives forever.
The door remained closed.
Franz waited.
