My Fiancé Chose Her So I Chose Myself Chapter 42
When I returned to London, the Thames Riverside pack was testing its new public support system.
The duty platform separated temporary housing, medication delivery, transportation, and medical accompaniment into distinct categories. Applicants could choose exactly what they needed and could also specify who they did not want accessing their private link.
The young analyst who had once worried about her report was seated at the testing desk.
Her recovery period after shifting was longer than average, and she had always avoided registering.
“I don’t want everyone to know,” she said.
The duty officer turned the permissions screen toward her.
“Only the medical team and the coordinator you designate can see it. You can revoke that access at any time.”
After reviewing it, she selected transportation and emergency medical care, and left emotional companionship blank.
“Is that okay?”
“Of course,” the duty officer said. “Support is something you choose. It’s not something someone else decides for you.”
After submitting the application, she came over to me.
“Natalie, could I list you as my work-hours emergency contact? If you don’t want to, that’s okay.”
She asked first.
I glanced at my schedule.
“Yes. But I travel a lot, so add a duty coordinator, too. Don’t rely only on me.”
“Okay.”
No one took away her choices just because she needed help.
And no one dumped her whole life into my hands just because I was willing to help.
A week later, a North Sea storm grounded several routes again.
The duty platform went live for the first time.
Every stranded member received lodging confirmation. Food was prepared according to allergy and dietary needs. Luggage duty rotated in shifts, and anyone could refuse weight beyond their ability to handle.
At two in the morning, the young analyst requested medical accompaniment through the platform.
Her wolf was showing an abnormal recovery.
By the time I got the notification, the duty medical staff had already arrived. She was seated in a warm lounge with a blanket over her shoulders and a hot drink by her hand.
“I didn’t expect it to happen this fast,” she said.
“It should always happen this fast.”
She hesitated.
“Am I causing trouble for the team?”
“Needing help isn’t trouble,” I said. “And you don’t need to prove you’re vulnerable to deserve it. You only need to say what’s missing.”
She nodded and handed her medical form to the nurse.
My part ended there.
I did not take over her luggage. I did not decide her next flight for her. I did not demand that my company become a debt she owed.
By the time I got back to my apartment, dawn had broken.
A thin mist floated over the Thames. The repaired music box sat on the living room shelf, the oil stain on its base unchanged.
I wound it.
The melody was soft, but it was enough to fill the quiet room.
There was no mess on my phone waiting for me to clean up.
Only a confirmation from the team: every stranded member had checked in safely. No one had been left alone.
I set the phone aside and opened the curtains.
Morning light fell across my membership insignia, my coordination certificate, and the scratched wooden music box.
On the desk lay another newly delivered notice.
The Consent and Support Standards were due for their first public review after one year in operation.
The review site was Denver.
I looked at the city’s name and slowly closed the music box.
That was where the story had begun.
But this time, I would not be going back as the forgotten fifth person.