The atmosphere at the dining table had finally mellowed.
Xavier glanced between Weston and Guinevere with mild amusement, his eyes gleaming with a mixture of curiosity and sarcasm. He let out a soft chuckle, but it was subtle enough that no one else noticed. He was enjoying the little drama unfolding before him but chose to keep his comments to himself for the moment.
Weston, however, remained silent. He simply reached for the soup ladle and began serving Guinevere, but his actions froze for a split second, as an unexpected memory flashed through his mind.
He was suddenly reminded of Stella, of her back profile as she moved around in the kitchen, busy with meal preparations. It was strange; the table before him was filled with beautifully prepared dishes, crafted by a renowned chef, all of excellent standard. Yet, Weston found his mind drifting back to Stella’s simple, home-cooked meals.
At first, none of the dishes Stella had made had been to his liking. He barely showed interest, taking just a few bites to appease her. But gradually, he began to enjoy them, each meal better than the last. Stella had a way of perfecting even the simplest dishes—comfort food, done right. He remembered how he started looking forward to the meals, and before long, he was eating them regularly. He would visit her more, stay longer. Her cooking had become something he had started to crave.
His gaze dimmed as these thoughts resurfaced, but he pushed them away quickly. He focused on the present, ladling the soup for Guinevere with indifferent precision. “Drink up,” he instructed, his tone cool and businesslike, offering no hint of affection.
Guinevere accepted the bowl with a practiced smile. To an outsider, she appeared content, but internally, she felt a bitterness growing. The image of Weston’s panic on the rooftop, all for another woman, refused to leave her mind. Her unease deepened, but she tried to push it aside. Stop thinking about it, she told herself. Stella’s dead now. And so is the child. The kidnapper is badly injured, and he won’t survive much longer. Once he dies, no one will know what really happened. No one will be able to tell Weston the truth.
Guinevere’s mind raced with dark thoughts, but she quickly silenced them. She didn’t regret what she’d done to Stella—not in the slightest. If Stella hadn’t been eliminated, there was a chance Weston might have been drawn back to her, given his current state of mind. And with Stella carrying his child, there was a lingering threat. But now, all of that was gone. With Stella’s death, there would be no more obstacles standing in the way of her relationship with Weston.
The dead couldn’t compete with the living, after all.
After dinner, the other members of the Ford family seemed to sense the tension in the air and began to make excuses to leave. As they filed out of the room, Weston remained impassive, still seated at the table.
Chris, having observed Weston’s quiet demeanor, gave him a sharp look and then gestured toward him. “Come here. I have something to say to you.”
Guinevere’s heart skipped a beat. She watched as Weston slowly stood up, her anxiety creeping in. She felt a wave of unease wash over her as she saw him leave. Just as she was about to follow, Wendy reached over and gently held her hand, shaking her head.
“Don’t worry. They might not be talking about you and Weston. It’s not your place to interfere,” Wendy said softly, her voice warm but firm.
As the last of the Ford family members trickled out, Wendy’s demeanor shifted. Her gaze, once kind, now seemed to carry a note of distance. Guinevere felt the change in the air, sensing a shift in Wendy’s attitude. She couldn’t help but feel uncomfortable.
Pursing her lips, Guinevere hesitated before speaking. “Aunt Wendy, do you perhaps have a misunderstanding toward me?”
Wendy’s eyes softened just slightly, but there was a noticeable tension in her expression. She didn’t immediately answer, and the silence hung between them, heavy with unspoken thoughts.
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