How ironic of him, playing family with a 22-year-old girl.
The weakness in my body and the sting of his words made my eyes burn with unshed tears. My fingers trembled as I dialed Ethan’s number once more.
This was my 17th call since my fever started. Perhaps if he hung up again, he would feel suspicious.
I watched him curse under his breath as he reluctantly answered.
“Where are you?” I asked, staring at him.
Ethan, stroking Anna’s earlobe with one hand, impatiently replied, “I’m busy in a meeting. Let’s talk later.”
Before I could respond, the line went dead, the disconnect beeps cold and final.
At that moment, my tears flowed uncontrollably. I let out a bitter laugh, not bothering to wipe them away. Then I turned and picked up my mother’s twentieth call this month urging me to marry.
“Hello, Mom,” I said, my voice steady. “I’ll come home next Wednesday. Set up the arranged marriage in the village for me. I’ll marry him.”
