Escape from Mr. Whitman (Emma and Theodore) novel Chapter 221

Fallon was still at the hospital, so of course, she had nothing to offer.

She didn’t know exactly where Emma had gone, but she knew one thing for certain: Mrs. Foster was never coming back to Mr. Foster.

It was just like her own situation—Fallon never wanted her ex to find her again, not in this lifetime. She was sure Mrs. Foster felt the same. No matter what, she didn’t want to be found.

So, apart from denying any knowledge, there was nothing Fallon could say.

Theodore ended the call, disappointment etched across his features.

He tried Emma’s number once more, but it still wouldn’t connect.

Pulling up the security app on his phone, he checked the live feed from home. The screen was pitch black.

No lights on in the living room?

Maybe she was asleep in the bedroom?

He frowned, agitation creeping in.

“Theo?” Cecilia’s hands curled into tight fists, but her face was full of concern. “Why don’t you let Jared and the others check on her for you?”

“It’s fine.” Theodore was already striding through the hotel lobby toward the elevator. “She’s probably just annoyed with me, turned her phone off.”

Or maybe she’d blocked him again.

If she’d dared block him this time, he was going to give her a piece of his mind when he got back—maybe even a good smack.

Theodore’s frown deepened, irritation simmering beneath his calm exterior.

Cecilia forced a smile. “Emma, annoyed with you? As if she’d dare.”

Theodore gave a rueful laugh. “It happens more often than you think.”

Especially lately.

Cecilia’s smile faded.

Neither of them seemed in the mood for conversation, and the walk to their seaside villa passed in silence.

After they arrived, Theodore let them in and immediately settled on the couch, absorbed in his phone.

“Theo, could you help me dry my hair? I don’t want to catch a cold.” Her voice was even softer now, practically a whisper.

Water dripped from her hair, soaking the neckline of her slip, making the fabric cling to her skin—leaving little to the imagination.

Theodore stood, fetched a robe from the closet, and wrapped it around her shoulders. “The air conditioning’s on. If you’re worried about catching cold, you should wear something warmer.”

Cecilia froze, caught off guard, but then let herself be gently steered by Theodore to the vanity.

He picked up the hairdryer and began drying her hair with practiced ease, his fingers working through the strands so deftly that he never pulled or tugged.

Cecilia’s voice trembled. “Theo, do you… do you help Emma with her hair like this at home?”

Theodore paused for a split second.

He had, back then.

Five years ago, after her accident, Emma could hardly manage anything on her own.

He’d taken care of her—washing her feet, changing her bandages, washing and drying her hair…