Sorry for Your Loss, It's Me, I'm the Loss novel Chapter 201

The faint, metallic scent of blood hung in the air, and it was impossible to tell if it was hers or his.

“Is it serious?” Bennett asked again.

“I should… live,” Yvonne replied, her voice slightly hoarse and tinged with self-deprecation.

Bennett said nothing more. He sat down beside her, maintaining a polite social distance.

A long silence stretched between them, so profound that time itself seemed to stand still.

Bennett leaned his straight back against the wall, closing his eyes to rest.

An unknown amount of time passed before a soft moan escaped the person next to him.

Bennett’s eyes snapped open, and he turned to look at Yvonne. Her eyes were squeezed shut, her cheeks flushed an unnatural crimson, and her forehead was beaded with cold sweat.

“Yvonne, what’s wrong with you?” he asked, his voice low and deep as he called her name.

Yvonne’s eyes fluttered open instinctively. Her beautiful, almond-shaped eyes were hazy, her gaze unfocused as she looked at him.

“Ben, I feel so sick,” Yvonne murmured, her lips trembling with a childlike vulnerability. She was clearly delirious with fever, unable to distinguish past from present.

After speaking, she habitually reached out to tug on the hem of Bennett’s shirt.

Bennett’s dark pupils contracted, and he instinctively gripped her hand. “What did you call me? Who are you, really?”

The sharp pain from her wrist brought a sliver of clarity back to Yvonne. Her eyelashes trembled as her vision slowly focused on him.

“Who am I? Hasn’t Mr. Bennett Thompson already looked into that?” Yvonne let out a soft, mocking laugh and shook his hand off her wrist.

Unconscious with a high fever—her situation was clearly becoming dangerous.

They were trapped in the basement with the door locked from the outside, and their phones had no signal. By the time anyone realized they were missing and found them, Yvonne might have already suffered permanent brain damage from the fever.

Bennett’s brow furrowed deeper.

He wrapped his jacket tightly around Yvonne, propping her against the wall.

Then he stood up, walked over to the single, sealed glass window, and balled his hand into a fist. He smashed it against the glass, again and again, until it shattered.

His hand was sliced open by the shards, blood dripping freely.

But Bennett paid it no mind. He took out his phone, stretched his arm as far as he could out the broken window, and finally, the signal bars appeared.