Jonathan POV:
I hustled into the kitchen, a frantic energy thrumming through me. Krystal had been through so much. I had been through so much. But now… now I would fix it. I would win her back.
"What does Krystal like to eat?" I asked the housekeeper, my voice a little too loud, a little too eager. "Something special. Not the usual bland hospital food."
The housekeeper looked at me, a strange expression on her face. "Sir, Dr. Mercado usually just eats whatever is available. She's not picky."
"No, no, that won't do," I insisted, my jaw tight. "Something she loves. Something that shows I care. Something… healthy, but delicious."
"Well," the housekeeper offered hesitantly, "she used to enjoy the steamed sea bass. With a little ginger and scallions."
Sea bass. Right. I nodded, a plan forming. It wasn' t a complicated dish, but it required attention, care. Something I hadn' t given Krystal in too long.
I spent the next two hours in the kitchen, a place I rarely entered. The steam from the pot fogged my glasses. I chopped, I seasoned, I carefully monitored the cooking time. My hands, usually so steady with policy papers and handshake deals, fumbled with the ingredients. But I persevered. For Krystal.
As I carefully transferred the perfectly cooked fish into a thermos, a realization hit me, stark and brutal. This was the first time I had ever cooked for her. The first time I had made her a meal, with my own hands, driven by my own volition. A bitter taste filled my mouth. How much had I taken her for granted? How blind had I been?
I imagined her face, lighting up when I presented the thermos. Her soft smile, her grateful eyes. She would be surprised. Pleased. Maybe even a little touched. This was it. This was the beginning of our fresh start.
My heart hammered with a desperate hope. I grabbed the thermos and rushed out, my footsteps echoing through the silent halls of the hospital. Krystal, I thought, I' m coming. I' m going to make this right.
I pushed open the door to her room, a wide smile plastered on my face. "Krystal, I made-"
The words died in my throat.
The bed was empty. Unmade. No Krystal.
My heart lurched, a sickening knot forming in my stomach. Panic, cold and sharp, clawed at my chest. No. This can't be happening.
She must have just gone to the bathroom. Or maybe she was taking a walk, trying to stretch her injured leg. Yes, that had to be it. She was just nearby.
"Krystal?" I called out, my voice betraying the tremor in my hands. "Krystal, where are you?"
Silence. Only the faint whirring of the medical equipment answered me.
I rushed to the nurses' station, my voice tight with urgency. "Where is Dr. Mercado? My wife, Krystal? She's not in her room."
The nurse, a young woman with wide, startled eyes, looked up from her computer. "Dr. Mercado? I… I don't know, Senator. I haven't seen her. No one has pushed her out in a wheelchair."
"What do you mean, you don't know?" I roared, slamming my hand on the counter. The thermos clattered loudly. "She's injured! She can't just disappear! Find her! Now!"
The nurse flinched, her face paling. "Yes, Senator! I'll check immediately!" She scurried away, her feet pounding down the hall.
A cold dread spread through me, chilling me to the bone. This wasn't right. This wasn't Krystal. She wouldn't just leave without a word. Not after everything. Not after Leo.
No. She wouldn't. She couldn't. My mind raced, trying to find a logical explanation. But there was none. Only a growing, suffocating certainty that something was terribly, fundamentally wrong. I needed to see her. Needed to hold her. Needed to make her understand.
"Get me the director," I barked at another startled nurse. "And prepare all security footage. Every single camera in this hospital. I want to see every second of the last twelve hours."
I would find her. No matter what.
