Guinevere’s cautious and confused expression made Wendy smile inwardly. However, she didn’t let it show. Instead, she gently patted the back of Guinevere’s hand, her face full of kindness. “No way. We’ll be family soon, so I won’t be as formal with you as I would be with guests. But if you mind it…”
Guinevere was taken aback. She quickly shook her head. “I don’t mind. I just thought you might have a misunderstanding toward me… I’m sorry.” Her eyes met Wendy’s for a brief moment before she averted them, feeling guilty. She picked up her glass and held it to her lips, hoping to hide the emotions that stirred within her.
On the balcony, Chris drew the curtains of the French windows. Weston snorted, a humorless laugh escaping his lips. “Are you feeling guilty? Afraid that someone might overhear?”
With just the two of them in the room, Chris no longer put on the mask of the strict patriarch. Instead, he seemed worn and tired. “I know you feel aggrieved… but Gwen loves you. And the child—well, it still carries the Ford blood. You’re tied to her now, in some way.”
Chris hesitated for a moment, the words clearly not sitting right with him. Weston noticed the guilt and insincerity in his tone, and a sense of irony washed over him. He stood by the railing, one hand gripping it while the other tugged at his shirt collar, trying to breathe easier.
“Since you’ve already made your decision, why are you still asking for my opinion?” Weston’s voice was colder now.
“Weston…” Chris stared at him, his eyes searching for something, before continuing. “You’ll still marry Gwen, won’t you? After all, she’s been the only one by your side all these years.”
He paused for a moment before adding, “And as for that woman, Stella, she’s already gone. She died from falling off a building. No matter what history you had with her, it’s time to let go.”
Weston’s fists clenched, and his gaze turned dangerous. The mention of Stella caused a storm of emotions to churn within him, and he struggled to maintain control.
Meanwhile, in a private hospital room, Stella stared up at the ceiling, her eyes dry and blank. She had lost count of how many times she had woken up in this state. She wasn’t sure how she felt anymore—she had survived, but her child hadn’t.
The door creaked open, and Ben Sullivan, Weston’s personal assistant, entered. Stella didn’t even glance at him, her gaze fixed lifelessly ahead, as though she had already given up on everything.
Ben, accustomed to Stella’s silence, frowned slightly. “Madam…” He immediately corrected himself. “Ms. Sealey, how are you feeling?”
His professional tone didn’t seem to rouse any response from Stella. She had been in this state ever since she was declared dead following her fall, and Weston had ensured she was hidden away in this private hospital. Physically, she had recovered, but emotionally, she remained distant, unresponsive, and detached.
Ben continued, “Mr. Sealey has ensured that you’ve been well taken care of. If you’re ready, Ms. Sealey, you can leave tomorrow.”
At the mention of leaving, a faint glimmer of awareness sparked in Stella’s eyes. She propped herself up in bed, her lips curling into a small, cynical smile. “Weston is really quick at getting things done. Is he so afraid that I’ll become a nuisance to Guinevere again, that he’ll force me to play dead, change my name, and move to another city before he can finally be at peace?”
Ben stood silently, his expression unreadable. “Ms. Sealey… I’m just following instructions.”
Stella’s grip tightened on the bedsheet as her lips turned pale from the pressure. She didn’t respond immediately but stared out the window, her eyes reflecting the shadows of the trees outside. Her silence stretched on.
After a moment, Ben spoke again, his voice a little more insistent. “Ms. Sealey, please don’t make things difficult for Mr. Ford…”
Stella’s voice, sharp and unyielding, interrupted him. “There’s one thing left that needs to be taken care of.”
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