Dear Ex-wife Marry Me by Twin Bridge

Maja had been by Patric’s bedside for nearly half an hour when Quentin came in, carrying a bag filled with cold remedies. “Maja, I’ve got fever reducers here, take a look.” Maja picked out two of the fastest-acting ones and administered them to Patric. “I just came back from the local clinic. They said a doctor could come over to give him a shot if needed. I left my number. Should we call for it? It would bring the fever down quicker.” Maja thought about the myriad of needle marks that would pepper Patric’s arm and slowly shook her head. “Let’s not.” Quentin simply sat down beside her. Maja forcefully pushed the pills into Patric’s mouth and followed them with a small glass of water. In his drowsy state, Patric coughed a few times, half-attempting to open his eyes, but felt too weak to do so. Maja laid him back down and began to massage her temples with her fingers. Quentin then asked, “Should we call someone to take care of him?” “No need. The fewer people around us, the better. I have this feeling we’re being watched.” Even though she didn’t know the intentions of those who might be watching them, she couldn’t shake the feeling of being under surveillance. Forbidden Island was a place she couldn’t fully understand—its governance chaotic, its social structure rigid, yet some aspects revealed an unusual unity. One more person around them meant one more risk. She stood up to close the window but noticed Quentin’s hand was bleeding. “What happened there?” “I got it scratched by a branch on my way in.” Maja rummaged through the medicine Quentin had bought—it was quite comprehensive, including treatments for external wounds. She took out a disinfectant spray and applied it to his hand. “Quentin, are you worried about that tattoo? Don’t be. Once we find Ian, I’m sure I can take care of that for you.” After disinfecting, she applied some ointment. Suddenly, the lights in the room went out. Maja glanced out the window, only to see that the entire island was in darkness. “What’s going on?” Before she finished her sentence, she heard a sound overhead and instinctively

phone, checked Maja’s ankle. Her ankle was nearly crushed by the chandelier and was bleeding profusely. The villa’s chandelier was not light, and its weight was considerable. Quentin moved the chandelier aside, reached for the disinfectant spray, but the wound was too long. Disinfection was not enough. Stitches were necessary. He frowned, and in the darkness, there was no need to fake an expression, so a sly smile crept on his face. “You didn’t have to push me away. I could’ve dodged it.” “You’ve never been trained in combat. How would you dodge it? Hisss.” Maja held her ankle, sweat dripping from her forehead. “Quentin, call that doctor back, the wound needs stitching. Disinfecting alone won’t stop the bleeding.