Chapter 13: A Notification and a Name. The Urban Romance Thriller Web Novel "The Ocean Between Us" by Abrar Nayeem Chowdhury.

The Hayes home was a modest, red-brick cottage with ivy trailing the shutters and an old lilac tree standing guard by the garden gate. Within its walls, warmth had always dwelled—except on this particular morning, when Mrs. Elinor Hayes arrived with trembling hands and a broken spirit.

Her husband, Mr. Charles Hayes, sat reading the newspaper in the parlour when he looked up and saw her pale face.

“Elinor? My love, what has happened?”

She could not speak. Not at first. The words came only as tears—rushing, urgent, bitter. He rose and came to her side, taking her into his arms as she cried upon his shoulder.

“It was—oh, Charles—it was unbearable,” she whispered. “The things he said… the things he did to Loren. Right before my eyes.”

Charles’s arms stiffened around her.

“What things?” he asked, his voice low and trembling with restrained fury.

“He… he threw water at her. He called me names—said I poison his air. And Loren… she stood there, soaked in silence.”

Charles pulled away, his face drained of colour but resolute. “I must speak to her. Now.”

Loren was folding linens in the bedroom when her phone buzzed on the dresser.

Father.

But Thomas was in the room.

“You’re ignoring a call?” he asked, without looking up from his watch.

“It is my father,” Loren replied softly, moving to silence the device.

Thomas stood. “Answer it.”

“I would rather not speak just now.”

“Perhaps it’s urgent,” he said. “Maybe an emergency.”

“An emergency?” Loren repeated with disbelief. “Do you now pretend to care about my parents?”

Thomas looked up at her then, his brow raised in mock offence. “Yes. I do.”

“Then explain to me,” she said, voice rising, “why you insulted my mother yesterday?”

He scoffed. “Because your mother is a jerk.”

Loren’s eyes widened. “What did you say?”

“You heard me.”

“No. I want to hear you say it again—and explain it.”

“She came to this house uninvited,” Thomas snapped. “She didn’t inform me.”

“She is my mother!” Loren cried. “You expect her to ask your permission before visiting her daughter?”

“Yes,” he said coldly. “Because this is my house, my rules, my money. And as long as you and your family dwell beneath this roof, you will obey me.”

Loren stood still, as if struck by something unseen. “I must obey you?” she said slowly. “Because I live under your roof… and you provide for me?”

“Any doubt?” he said with a smirk.

Her hands trembled, but her spine straightened. “I am your wife, Thomas. Your responsibility—not your slave.”

He met her gaze evenly. “Yes. You are the slave. You live in my world, by my hand, and you will do as I say.”

“I cannot,” she whispered.

“Then go,” he said, raising his voice. “Leave. I shall begin drafting a divorce letter tomorrow.”

“Why tomorrow?” she shouted. “Why not today?”

She turned on her heel and stormed to the foyer, grabbing her small vanity bag—the one her mother gifted her on her wedding day. There were no clothes packed, no boxes prepared. Just a purse and a decision.

“I’m leaving now,” she declared. “This moment. I want nothing from you but my freedom.”

Thomas leaned against the wall, unbothered. “Wish you good luck, kid.”

The wind met her at the door. It was brisk, but not biting—almost welcoming. She walked with purpose, though her eyes brimmed with tears.

Her phone buzzed again.

She answered.

“Father?” she breathed.

“Loren,” Charles said quickly. “My girl. Are you safe? Elinor came home in pieces. Tell me—what is happening?”

“I’m coming,” Loren said. Her voice was cracked and fierce. “I’m coming home, Father. My home. He is free now.”

A long pause.

“What happened?”

“It’s over, Dad,” she whispered. “It’s finally over.”

It was just past ten o'clock, and the house was hushed save for the occasional creak of old floorboards and the distant ticking of the antique mantel clock in the sitting room. Aana sat curled on the chaise longue, a shawl wrapped about her shoulders and a half-read book lying forgotten on her lap.

The screen of her phone lit up.

1 new notification.
Facebook: You have a new friend request.

She hesitated, thumb hovering just above the screen, and tapped it open.

And there it was.
Ronaldo Vasquez.

Her breath caught.

“What?” she gasped aloud. “Is it—can it truly be?”

Her heart raced, fingers trembling.

She clicked into the profile. It was him—the eyes, the smile, the familiar calm etched in his expression.

“Oh, heavens,” she whispered, rising abruptly. “It is real. It is—him.”

A joyful shriek escaped her lips, one she could not restrain.

“Mama!” she called into the hallway. “Mama, I—oh, never mind.”

With a wide smile, she pressed “Accept Friend Request.”

Still standing, she placed a hand over her chest.

“But how did he find me?” she murmured. “I searched his name again and again. Not a trace. Not a clue. And now—this? He found me first?”

Her cheeks flushed as she whispered to the room, “Has God truly heard my prayer?”

In his New York apartment, Ronaldo lay on his sofa, the soft glow of a table lamp illuminating the room. A laptop rested on his chest, half-closed. The night had been quiet until—

PING!
Facebook: Your friend request has been accepted.

He sat up so swiftly, the laptop nearly tumbled to the floor.

“What?” he exclaimed, grabbing his phone. “No—no way!”

He tapped the notification, and when he saw her name in bold—"Aana has accepted your friend request"—his heart did what it had not done in weeks.

It soared.

He stood, laughing aloud, his voice echoing in the empty room.

“Yes! Oh, thank God. Thank You—thank You!” He ran a hand through his hair. “She saw it. She knows. She remembers me.”

He clicked into her profile, staring at the familiar face that had haunted his dreams.

“She’s even more beautiful than I remembered,” he whispered. “I must write to her. No—I must not seem too eager… or should I?”

A pause, and then—he laughed again.

“To hell with pretense,” he said. “She waited just as I did.”

Back in England, Aana still held the phone in her hand.

Her mother entered the room, brow raised. “What is all this noise, child?”

“Mama,” Aana said breathlessly, “do you recall the man I met on the ship—the one I spoke of?”

“The one with the thoughtful eyes and brave spirit?”

Aana nodded. “He found me.”

Her mother smiled softly. “And how did that make you feel?”

“Like…” Aana looked at her phone, her eyes shining. “Like God whispered his name back to me.”

TO BE CONTINUED...

Chapter 12: https://webnovelbyabrar.blogspot.com/2025/04/chapter-12-tipping-point-urban-romance.html

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