Chapter 98: Waiting

The first thing I do is reach for my phone.

I don’t stop to think about it or question the impulse, I just unlock the screen and scroll straight to Bael’s contact like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

My thumb hovers for half a second, just long enough for the thought to flicker...*why him first?*...before I press call.

It rings, once, twice, three times, and then his voicemail picks up, smooth and distant, his voice reduced to something impersonal and recorded.

I don’t leave a message. I hang up instead and stare at the screen for a moment, telling myself this is normal, that he’s probably in a meeting, that he doesn’t pick up calls during work unless it’s urgent.

This feels urgent.

Not in the way he would define it, but still.

I open our message thread, type *Are you busy?*, then delete it immediately because that’s not what I want to say.

I try again, *I need to tell you something*, and delete that too because it sounds too heavy, too deliberate, like I’m asking for more than I have the right to ask for.

I exhale quietly and start over, settling on something neutral.

*When will you be home?*

I send it before I can overthink it further.

The message delivers instantly, and I sit there watching the screen like something might happen if I look at it long enough.

Nothing does.

No typing indicator, no reply, no acknowledgment at all, just my own words sitting there unchanged.

He’s in a meeting. That’s all.

I set the phone down, then pick it up again a few seconds later without meaning to, checking the screen even though I already know there won’t be anything new.

There isn’t.

I tell myself to stop, to give it time, to do something else in the meantime, and then push back from the desk because sitting still suddenly feels impossible.

The energy in my chest hasn’t gone anywhere.

If anything, it’s sharper now that I’m not actively reading the email, not grounding myself in the words that made this real.

It feels like it’s looking for somewhere to go, like if I stay still too long it’s going to turn into something else entirely.

So I move.

The estate looks the same as it always does, quiet and controlled, every detail exactly where it should be, but something about it feels different today, or maybe it’s just me.

Everything feels lighter, like there’s a current running under my skin that wasn’t there before, something that wants to spill out if I’m not careful.

I walk without direction at first, then realize I’ve circled the same stretch of hallway twice and force myself to turn somewhere else.

It’s ridiculous, pacing like this, checking my phone every few minutes like I’m expecting something immediate when I know better than that. I’ve seen how his days work, how meetings stack into each other until time stops meaning anything except the next task that needs to be handled.

Still, I check again.

Nothing.

This is ridiculous.

I have genuinely good news and no one to tell it to, which turns out to be its own specific kind of frustrating.

I could call Ling Yue. He’d want to know, and he’d respond properly, with actual enthusiasm rather than measured acknowledgment.

But I find I don’t want to call Ling Yue first.

I don’t follow that thought any further.

I end up back in the study without remembering how I got there, sit down, then stand again almost immediately because the restlessness won’t let me stay in one place.

My fingers tap against the back of the chair in an uneven rhythm until I force them to stop, pressing my palm flat against the wood like that might ground me.

You’re excited, I tell myself. That’s all this is.

Excited energy with nowhere to go yet, nothing more complicated than that.

I just need to wait until he gets home. Until I can tell him properly, not through a rushed message or a half-conversation between meetings, but in a way that actually feels real.

That thought makes me pause.

*Actually feels real.*

I frown slightly, because I don’t know what that’s supposed to mean, not exactly, and I don’t look at it too closely. Instead, I push it aside and keep moving.

***

By the time dinner is ready, he still isn’t home.

I don’t ask where he is. Mrs. Wen moves through the dining room with her usual quiet efficiency, setting everything in place like nothing is different, like this is just another evening.

"Will Mr. Wuchen be joining you?" she asks, her tone neutral.

"I don’t know," I reply, which is the simplest version of the truth.

She nods once and steps back, leaving me alone at the table.

I sit down, glance at the empty chair across from me, then pick up my phone again before I can stop myself. There’s still nothing... no missed calls, no messages, no indication that he’s even seen what I sent.

I set the phone face-down on the table this time, deliberately pushing it a little further away.

I can eat without checking it every few seconds. I’m not that—

I take a bite, chew, swallow, and reach for the phone again out of reflex, stopping myself halfway through the motion.

I close my eyes briefly, exhale, and pull my hand back.

This is stupid.

He’s working. That’s all.

He’s not obligated to respond immediately, not to something like this, not when he has actual responsibilities to deal with.

I take another bite, but the food barely registers, the taste muted by the way my attention keeps drifting elsewhere.

By the time I’m halfway through the meal, the energy from earlier has shifted, not disappeared, just... changed.

There’s still something restless under my skin, but it’s no longer clean, no longer just excitement.

Something else has layered itself over it, something quieter and harder to name.

I don’t try to name it.

***

I finish dinner alone.

Mrs. Wen clears the table without comment.

I pick up my phone again.

Still nothing.

My text sits there unchanged.

*When will you be home?*

I consider sending another message, then don’t, because I don’t know what I’d say that wouldn’t sound unnecessary or worse, like I’m asking for something I can’t justify.

He’s busy.

That’s the explanation.

The only explanation.

I know that.

So why does it feel like there should be more to it?

Like this isn’t just about telling someone.

Like it’s about telling him.

I stop that thought before it goes any further.