Dear Ex-wife Marry Me (Maja and Ian) novel Chapter 1867

His voice was so hoarse that for a moment, he couldn't be sure if it was Fitch on the other end. But who else would be reckless enough to rush in at a moment like this?

Ian dashed toward the source of the commotion and found Fitch with flames crawling up his back.

"Fitch!" he yelled, pushing him down to smother the fire.

The back of Fitch's suit jacket was nearly burnt to a crisp, the scent of char lingering in the air, yet he seemed oblivious to the pain. Amidst the blaze, there was no sign of Zoey. Could something have happened to her? Where could she be? Where was the mother of the child that had just been born?

Ian's mind was a whirlwind of chaos, so much so that for a brief moment, he couldn't even see the flames around him. All he wanted was to dive deeper into the inferno, hoping against hope to find Zoey.

He grabbed Fitch by the waist, seeing his back scorched beyond recognition, and took a deep breath.

"Even if you've got a death wish, think about the kid still fighting for life in the hospital," Ian said, trying to ground him.

A glimmer of moisture flashed across Fitch's eyes, pulling him back from the brink of his own personal hell.

Ian hoisted him up, unable to bear the sight of his friend's burnt flesh any longer.

"Besides, ask yourself who brought the kid back. What the hell happened? How did Zoey give birth?"

Fitch's voice was almost gone, his face caked in soot. At a fire scene, you expect ash and smoke, but his face was now only recognizable by his eyes.

Ian glanced outside; the firefighters were already on the scene.

Upon reaching the hospital, Fitch, driven by instinct, sprinted toward the children's ward. The news was grim: the child was still in resuscitation.

"Sorry, you can't go in right now. We need to maintain a sterile environment," a nurse told him.

Fitch sat on a hallway chair, his hair singed at the ends. He'd always been the epitome of composure and coolness, but now he looked almost comical—though no one passing by dared to speak to him.

The child was in the care of the most renowned pediatric team, their foreheads slick with sweat. For two days, they fought to stabilize the child, who was then placed into an incubation chamber.

Fitch stood up, his legs numb, and approached the chamber. The baby was premature, frail from the start, destined for months in the observation box.

Fitch was silent, the pain in his heart unbearable, especially as he looked upon the child's face. He even bent down slightly, the only way to bear the physical weight pressing down on him.