The Year I Stopped Being His novel Chapter 147

He pressed the call button.

He pressed the phone to his ear.

And waited.

One second. Two seconds. Three seconds.

"We're sorry, the number you have reached is temporarily unavailable..."

The cold, mechanical female voice felt like a bucket of ice water dumped over his head.

Garrison froze, instantly hung up, and dialed again.

"We're sorry, the number you have reached is temporarily unavailable..."

He dialed again.

"We're sorry, the number..."

He lowered the phone, staring blankly at the screen for several seconds before reality finally struck him.

Antarctica.

She was in Antarctica. There was zero cell service.

He threw his head back against the leather headrest, squeezed his eyes shut, and dragged in a massive breath of air. An invisible boulder was crushing his chest, making it entirely impossible to breathe. But he couldn't afford to panic. He had to stay analytical.

Dean Quinton.

He immediately dialed Zachary Quinton's number.

"Garrison? What's going on?" Zachary's voice echoed through the speaker.

"Dean Quinton," Garrison spoke urgently, aggressively suppressing his panic. "Can you establish a connection with Endurance Station down in the Antarctic? I have a massive emergency and need to reach Sloane right now."

There was a brief silence on the other end.

"Sloane... didn't you call her a few days ago? The expedition team should have already deployed by now."

"Dean Quinton, I am begging you," Garrison cut him off. "Please. Get me a line to them."

Zachary didn't ask any further questions. "Hold on. Let me track down Manager Hayes's direct satellite number."

The call ended. Garrison gripped his phone in a white-knuckled hold, staring at the blank screen, his palms slick with sweat.

Three agonizing minutes later, the phone buzzed.

"Garrison, I just spoke to her," Zachary's voice was heavy. "Manager Hayes said the expedition team departed for The White Lake three days ago. The trek takes over two weeks. It's a total dead zone for communications—they can't even initiate a call outward. We can only make contact once they reach the next remote outpost."

Two weeks.

Garrison's grip on the phone tightened so fiercely his joints ached.

"Is there... any other way to establish contact?" His voice was raw and broken. "Not even for a life-or-death emergency?"

"I am so sorry, Garrison."

Zachary let out a deep sigh. "You know how hostile that environment is. Even military satellite signals bounce off the interference. You just have to wait."

The line went dead.

[Diego, hurry back, I miss my wife!]

[Does anyone know her actual name?]

[Those looks and that elegant vibe... I'm obsessed.]

[Is she single? Hook a brother up!]

Garrison stared at the comments. He stared at the endless stream of "Gorgeous," "Wifey," and "She's killing me," feeling a violent rush of blood to his head.

He remembered watching that stream live. He remembered her stepping out in that deep blue dress, the chat exploding with obsessive praise.

He remembered the comments calling her "Wifey" and "Goddess," and how his hands had practically shaken with jealous rage.

Back then, he had only felt pure, territorial fury.

Furious that all these strangers felt entitled to look at her, furious that she was smiling for a camera instead of standing by his side.

Only now did the horrifying truth finally crush him. Back then, while she was looking into that camera, that massive, lethal tumor had already been growing inside her head.

When she stood under those lights in that beautiful dress, smiling for the world, she was dying.

When she had danced in that bar, she was dying.

When she collapsed in the cabin of the icebreaker, curling in on herself and clutching her forehead in agony, she had been dying.

And he had been sitting in his pristine laboratory thousands of miles away, glaring through a microscope at the remnants of his Vitas Culture, consumed by petty anger and feeling totally victimized.

He hadn't known a single damn thing.