Chapter 7: Max offered to escort Sarah

[Max's Perspective]

Through the heavy oak, I could hear the muffled sound of Sarah's sobs – a sound she was trying desperately to contain. My phone vibrated again in my pocket: Isabella's second call of the night.

I stood there, frozen between two doors, two women, two versions of myself. The image of Sarah biting down on her forearm to stifle her cries burned in my mind. Such a small gesture, yet achingly familiar... For a moment, I was transported back to another time, another lab, where a young girl with copper hair would bite her lip to hold back tears whenever an experiment failed.

The memory hit with unexpected force: her determined expression as she wiped away tears, refusing to give up until she got the formula right. The way she'd apologize for being emotional, even as she started the whole process again.

No. I shook the memory away. Sarah wasn't her. Couldn't be her. That girl had disappeared years ago, leaving nothing but silence and unanswered questions.

The phone buzzed again. "Max?" Isabella's voice carried a note of reproach when I finally answered. "Why didn't you pick up the first time I called?"

"I was busy."

"Too busy for me?" A delicate sniffle. "I can't sleep. The doctors say it's a side effect from the chemical exposure. Everything hurts, and I'm so scared..."

As Isabella spoke, my eyes were drawn to a security photo of Sarah in the lab during the chemical incident. The way she had moved among the injured, mixing solutions with practiced ease... It reminded me so much of someone else carefully measuring compounds, explaining complex reactions with childlike enthusiasm. Even their hands moved the same way – precise, confident, despite the chaos around them.

I glanced at the clock: 11:00 PM. "It's too late for a visit," I said firmly, pushing away the unsettling similarities. "I'll have security posted outside your door. Try to get some rest – I need to take Sarah to see my grandmother early tomorrow."

"Why you?" Isabella's voice turned petulant. "Can't Peter take her?"

I rubbed my temples, fighting exhaustion. "She's my wife now. There are certain responsibilities and obligations that come with that."

"Max!" Her voice rose in panic. "She's... she's dirty. You can't sleep with her. Her medical records—"

"Isabella." My voice carried a sharp edge. "Stop gossiping about other people's pasts. Everyone deserves respect."

She burst into tears. "You did sleep with her, didn't you? Don't you know about her STDs? What if you're infected?"

If it had been anyone else speaking this way, I would have lost my temper completely. But this was Isabella – the girl I had carried a torch for since we were teenagers. Still, my patience was wearing thin.

"Isabella," I kept my voice carefully controlled. "Whether or not I sleep with her has nothing to do with how much I care about someone. I won't touch her because I don't love her. Stop making assumptions, and stop spreading rumors."

"If you love me so much," her tone turned playful, teasing, "why won't you sleep with me?"

My control snapped. "Isabella Blake. Is this what ten years of education abroad taught you? Is this your idea of proper behavior?"

"Max, I was just joking!" She quickly switched to a coquettish tone.

"I'm not in the mood for jokes." My voice was ice. "Go to sleep. Security will be outside your door shortly. Kevin will bring a counselor to speak with you first thing tomorrow morning."

"A counselor? For what?"

"For your attitude adjustment."

I ended the call before she could respond, then immediately dialed security to arrange the night watch and tomorrow's counseling session.

With that handled, I leaned back in my chair, suddenly exhausted. I thought of the Isabella I used to know – sweet, brilliant, always kind despite her tendency to cry easily and seek attention. Even with her chubby cheeks and childish ways, she had known how to be endearing without crossing lines. She had understood boundaries, propriety, when to push and when to retreat.

Now... I could barely recognize her.

After a long moment of internal debate, I found myself walking back to our bedroom. The memory of her muffled sobs from earlier weighed heavily on my mind.

When I opened the door, Sarah was already asleep on her side of the bed – or at least pretending to be. I could see the slight tension in her shoulders that betrayed her consciousness. I slipped under the covers without a word, maintaining the careful distance we always kept between us.

Hours passed. I lay awake, listening to her breathing gradually even out as exhaustion claimed her. Sometime in the depths of night, she shifted in her sleep, unconsciously seeking warmth. I should have moved away, maintained our boundaries. Instead, I found myself drawing her closer, telling myself it was just to keep her from falling off the bed.

The familiar scent of her shampoo mixed with something else - a hint of chemical antiseptic that triggered another flash of memory: a young girl excitedly showing me her latest experiment, her lab coat too big, her eyes bright with passion for science. The memory overlapped with Sarah's sleeping form, and for a moment, the resemblance was uncanny. The same delicate profile, the same way of curling slightly inward while sleeping...

Morning light filtered through the windows, painting everything in soft gold. Sarah was curled against my chest, copper hair spilling across my arm, dried tears still visible on her cheeks. Something about the way she looked in the morning light nagged at me – like a half-remembered dream that dissolves upon waking.

She stirred, green eyes fluttering open. The moment she realized our position, she jerked away as if burned. The motion was so reminiscent of another time, another morning in the lab when I'd caught someone dozing over their research notes.

"I'm so sorry," she whispered, voice still thick with tears. "I didn't mean to—I must have moved in my sleep—I'll just—"

"I'm driving you to see my grandmother."

She froze halfway out of bed. "What?"

"You said you wanted to visit her. I'll take you." I kept my voice deliberately neutral, even as my eyes traced the familiar way she tucked her hair behind her ear – a gesture that stirred something in my memory I couldn't quite grasp.

"But... Isabella..."

"Will be fine with Dr. Williams looking after her." I stood, adjusting my cuffs with perhaps more attention than necessary, using the mundane action to silence the questions rising unbidden in my mind.

"Max." Her voice was small, uncertain. "Why? Peter already offered to drive me."

"Why can't I?" I kept my tone deliberately casual while studying the way sunlight caught her copper hair, how she held herself with an unconscious grace that seemed at odds with her supposed background.

"I just thought... with Isabella..."

"Peter has duties here." I turned away, pretending to adjust my tie, unable to face how the morning light made her hair glow the exact same shade as someone else's had, so many years ago. "The chemical incident investigation requires his presence. I'll handle the drive myself."