The Divorced Military Queen Awakens (by Sadie Baxter) novel Chapter 695

Two pairs of eyes swiveled toward Julius, shock written on both faces.

The jolt of his own impulsiveness hit a beat late, as if he’d spoken before thinking, and now he stared at his empty hands, unsure what had just burst out of him.

Why had he done that? Was it Harlan he cared about—or was it Quinn?

A prickling dread spread under his ribs. What if she still felt something for Harlan? What if his own icy distance drove her straight back into that man’s arms, just like in the nightmare that yanked him awake last night?

He heard his own voice before he decided to speak. "You're really going to answer Harlan’s call?"

Quinn peeled her fingers from his as though the touch burned. "He's my friend. Of course I'll answer."

The hint of relief in her eyes suggested she had been meaning to call him first. Julius felt that small revelation twist like a blade he’d handed her himself.

Quinn lifted the phone to her ear. "Harlan, it’s Quinn."

Across the line came nothing at first, just the rough drag of someone’s breathing. Then Harlan’s voice, quiet but wounded: "Quinnie, why did you speak to the Whitethorn residence and the Fane family yet leave me in the dark?"

Quinn’s knuckles whitened around the handset. "I planned to reach out once I got home," she said.

"I’ve never been first in your heart," Harlan went on, voice edged with tired humor. "But even if I’m lower on the list, at least keep me informed. I don’t call you Quinnie for nothing, do I?"

The softness in the man’s tone felt more dangerous than shouting; Julius’s jaw clenched.

"I’m sorry," Quinn murmured, scarcely louder than her breathing.

"How have you been?" Harlan asked. "I heard you were unconscious for five years and only woke up two days ago."

"I’m okay," she answered. "Give me some time, and I’ll recover."

"When will you come home? Should I fly to Kandria and bring you back myself?"

"No need," she rushed out. "I’ll be back in two days. We can meet then."

"Alright. I’ll wait for you."

The call ended. Harlan kept staring at the dark screen, as if sheer wanting could summon her voice back.

Quinnie is alive. Alive.

He had always believed a woman like her was too stubborn to die.

Still, five years asleep… what would those lost days have carved into her?

Whatever the answer, breathing was enough.

The squeak of the office door cut through his thoughts. "What's with the almost-tears face? Did your phone break?" the newcomer asked, strolling inside.

Harlan lifted his eyes from the device to the man.

Weston Windore—his younger uncle, older in wisdom, careless in posture.

"Quinnie’s alive," Harlan said, sliding the phone away. "She’ll be back in two days."

"Quinnie? Which Quinnie are we talking about?" Weston’s brows jumped.

"How many people have I ever called Quinnie?" Harlan muttered, eyelids lowering to hide the heat behind them.

He stiffened, realizing that broken breath could only be tears. The knowledge landed like blame.

Regret followed at once. Had he walked to her office, he could be there, wiping her tears instead of counting them through a cold receiver.

“Don’t cry. This is good news, Laura. Breathe, please.” The plea felt flimsy, but it was all he had.

“Yes… it’s good,” she sniffled, fighting to steady her voice. “How has Quinn lived these five years? Why are we only hearing now?”

Gently, he told her Quinn had been unconscious the entire time—five silent years in a hospital bed.

"It was only a few days ago that she woke. She reached out to the Whitethorn residence and the Fane family right away."

"They’ve already flown to Kandria to bring her home. They should land here within two days."

"I need to be in Kandria," she blurted, urgency overriding the last of her tears.

"Even with the fastest lane, a visa takes two days," he reminded her. "By the time you land, Quinn will already be back. Wait here; it’ll be quicker."

She fell silent, weighing the math, and finally hummed agreement.

Staying put did not mean staying quiet; Weston could almost hear her planning the next phone call.

The afternoon light in the rehab room slanted warm across Quinn’s knees when Mr. Wooley hurried in, phone held out like a trophy.

Since waking, she relied on borrowed devices; the pieces of her old life lay locked behind forgotten passcodes.

Laura’s voice spilled from the receiver, words tripping over sobs. "Quinnie, why didn’t you call me? Do you know how much I missed you? You’ve lived in my dreams every night."