Fake Date, Real Fate-Chapter 304: She Called

The city has settled into its late-night rhythm—quiet, obedient, efficient.

From the outside, it looks peaceful.

From where I stand, it looks exposed.

I’ve been reviewing reports without reading them, eyes skimming lines my mind refuses to absorb. My jacket is off. Tie loosened. Sleeves rolled. The faint pull along my ribs reminds me I pushed harder than Kassel approved of.

"Bro, are you not going home?" Cameron says, leaning against the glass wall with a coffee he doesn’t need. "It’s one a.m. Ever since you stopped being with Isabella, you’ve basically turned the office into your new home."

"I’m busy," I reply, eyes on the city below. The lights stretch endlessly, impersonal and awake, like me.

"And I’m the Queen of England," he snorts. "There’s a party in Amsterdam. Wanna come with me? Fresh air. Let yourself loose. Touch grass."

I glance at him. Flat. Warning.

"Do you want me to throw you out? You’re starting to sound like a mosquito."

"Ouch—"

Ring. Ring.

My phone vibrates in my hand.

I look down.

My Wife [hearts emoji]

My chest tightens.

Why is she calling this late?

My mind races instantly—too fast, too sharp. Did today unsettle her? Did something surface? A memory? A feeling? Did she wake up and realize she couldn’t breathe without answers?

I answer the call without hesitation.

"Hello?"

Please let this be nothing.

Please let this just be you missing me.

Please don’t let this be world war II all over again.

She doesn’t speak.

But I hear her.

Soft breathing. Careful. Close.

The sound goes straight through me.

Why isn’t she saying anything?

Is she crying?

Is she trying to decide what to tell me?

I stay quiet. I can wait. I’ll let her come to it in her own time.

Seconds stretch.

Too long.

"Who?" Cameron mouthed to me, gesturing at my phone.

I turn slightly away from him, lowering my voice.

"Hello? You still there?" I asked, softening my tone, trying to coax her out of her stunned silence. Maybe I startled her with how my voice sounded.

Why Is it taking her so long to say anything?

Then I heard a rustle, a faint, almost imperceptible sound, as if she’d pulled the phone away. Was she... hiding?

And then I hear it. Barely there. A whisper.

"Oh my God—"

It wasn’t a confirmation, not exactly. But the timbre of her voice, the faint tremor of panic I recognized so acutely... there was no mistaking it. It was her.

Is she remembering something?

Am I breathing too loud?

Is something making her uncomfortable?

"Bella?" I tried again. I needed her to respond. I needed to know she was okay. Why was she calling?

Another pause. Longer this time. I was almost sure I heard a faint thud, as if something had been dropped. My anxiety ratcheted up another notch.

My grip tightens around the phone.

"Isabella?" I pressed, the full version of her name, softer, almost pleading. I had to make her speak. I had to know.

Click.

The line goes dead.

Thirty-two seconds. The call duration vanished from my screen, replaced by the stark reality of a missed connection.

I stared at the black screen for a split second, my world tilting. I am not sure if the silence that followed was from her end or my own stunned shock.

"Adrien?" Cameron asked, sensing the shift.

"She called me," I say, voice low, controlled by force alone. "Then she hung up." I look at him. "Tell Gray to track her location. Now. Alert every shadow watching her."

He blinked, then swore. "Already on it," Cameron said, fingers flying across his phone. Calm. Efficient. But I hear the tension in his jaw. He knows why this is bad.

I take three seconds to force the panic down, to try and convince myself she was fine.

She hung up.

She was fine.

She was fine.

I was not fine.

I slammed the phone down on my desk, my brain spinning through all the potential worst-case scenarios: A prank? An emergency? Was she hurt? No, no, no, she was fine. She was fine. She had to be fine.

My fingers trembled slightly. I needed to hear her voice—a clear, articulate confirmation that she was safe. The silence on the previous call, her whispered panic, her abrupt hang-up—it all painted a terrifying picture. Was she in danger? Was someone listening?

I tried again.

Same result. Voicemail.

I swallowed hard, a metallic taste in my mouth. What was she doing? Playing games? No, not Isabella. Not with a call in the middle of the night.

I force myself to stay where I am, even though every molecule of my being is screaming at me to move. To go to her.

"Call her again, Adrien," Cameron urged, his own voice tight with worry. "She might be trying to reach you but can’t talk."

"I am," I snapped, hitting redial a third time.

My call rang once. Two. Three.

And then, it cut off. Not voicemail. Just... disconnected.

Fury, cold and sharp, mixed with his terror. Was she just messing with me? No, that was illogical. This was Isabella. Something was very wrong.

"Is the tracking up yet?" I asked, voice strained.

Cameron glances up from his phone, his expression tight.

"Not yet."

I bite back a curse. The waiting is torture. A living hell. My whole body is coiled tight, tension vibrating beneath my skin. I have no idea what’s happening, no idea what could be wrong, and the uncertainty is slowly driving me insane.

"Damn it," I hissed. "What’s taking so long?"

Cameron’s fingers flew across his screen again. "Gray’s working on it—there’s interference near her building. Something’s jamming signals in a three-block radius."

My blood runs cold.

Jamming.

That wasn’t coincidence.

I don’t wait another second.

I was already out the door, tearing down the hallway toward the emergency stairs.

"Adrien—!" Cameron shouts after me.

But I’m gone.

The elevator is too slow. I take the stairs three at a time, hitting the ground floor in under a minute. My car keys are in my hand before I even reach the parking garage.

She called me.

She hung up.

And now there’s interference.

No. No, no, no—

The engine roars to life beneath me as I peel out of the garage, tires screeching against concrete.

I didn’t care about speed limits.

I didn’t care about red lights.

All I cared about was her.

My thumb hovered over the message icon while I used my other hand to drive. What could I say? Are you okay? Where are you? Too generic. Too easily ignored. I needed to cut through whatever she was doing, whatever fear or confusion had made her hang up. Or whatever it might be.

I typed, fast, the words forming almost before I think about them. Desperate. Imperative:

Answer the phone, Bella.

I hit send. The instant the message delivered, I hit the call button again. I didn’t wait. I didn’t breathe.

It rang.

Every nerve ending in my body screamed. I gripped the phone, pressing it to my ear, listening to the relentless, terrifying ring. I hear it, clearly, through the silence of the car, through the thudding of my own heart. I was already speeding toward her, but somehow, this call felt like the last thread, the only connection I have to her. She has to answer.

She just has to.