I hadn't expected it—the first thing I heard was a woman's laugh, light and flirty.
"I baked these cookies myself—stick a candle in and that's your birthday party!"
Then his voice, lazy, half-smiling: "I'm busy right now."
"Anything else, call my assistant."
Before I could get a word out, the line went dead.
Panic flooded my chest. My fingers were shaking, already moving to redial.
The screen barely had time to light up before the night-shift instructor seized the back of my neck and wrenched me away from it.
Her face was cold. She glanced at my lock screen and sneered.
"Missing your man in the middle of the night?"
"Just as shameless as Ms. Henson said."
"You don't even know your place, do you? Chasing after him, clinging like a leech. He's unlucky he ever met you."
At the same time, Oliver posted a set of photos on his social media back home.
Burnt cookies on fine porcelain, so charred they could have been anything, warm candlelight pooling over two clasped hands.
The live photo carried the faint sound of a woman laughing, sweet and pleased.
"You promised! You said this was the most heartfelt gift..."
I shook my head hard, dragging myself back to the present.