Whitney’s expression darkened as she spoke, her words cutting through the air. “Since you know he’s not close with you, don’t bother him while he’s sleeping! It’s hard to get a baby to sleep.” The rebuke stung, but Guinevere kept her feelings in check, swallowing the discomfort brewing inside her.
“Forget it. Go and rest, both of you. I’ll go in and check on Zack,” Whitney added, her voice softening as she dismissed them.
Just as they were about to turn away, Whitney stopped them with a question. “Are the two of you still sleeping in separate rooms?” Her gaze shifted between them before settling on Weston, her eyes sharp and pointed. “It’s been almost a year, and Gwen’s almost fully recovered…” Her words hung in the air, the meaning clear and unspoken.
Weston responded casually, cutting her off. “There’s no hurry.”
Guinevere, standing off to the side, wasn’t surprised by his nonchalant answer, but hearing it from his lips directly still stung. She had known from the beginning that they would sleep separately. At first, it had been because they weren’t married yet, and sharing a room while she was pregnant would be inconvenient. After Zack’s birth, Weston had used the excuse that she hadn’t fully recovered to keep the distance between them.
So, while they appeared to be a married couple on the surface, they were still strangers in the dark of night. They had never shared a marital home—both still living in the Ford mansion. Guinevere had tolerated it all, burdened by the guilt that weighed heavily on her heart.
Though Weston had never outright blamed her for Stella’s death, Guinevere knew how he felt. She could sense the resentment, the unspoken truth between them. As long as that kidnapper—who had caused so much trouble—was still alive, Weston would never be fully at peace. Even now, when the man was in a vegetative state, Weston would occasionally visit him. Why bother with someone like that?
The truth was, they both knew that Stella’s death had left doubt in Weston’s mind. But Stella was gone. The damage had been done, and Guinevere couldn’t change the past, especially not with a dead woman.
All she could do was wait. Wait for the day when Weston would finally believe in her fully. She had already waited so many years—what was a little longer?
“It’s alright, Mrs. Ford,” Guinevere said, putting on a mask of calm. “I’m about to announce my return to the entertainment industry with a press conference. It’s a critical time for me, and Weston’s simply being considerate by sleeping in separate rooms.”
Whitney stared at her in silence for a long moment. Guinevere couldn’t quite decipher the look in her eyes, but she felt a faint sense of pity coming from Whitney. The realization twisted in her gut. Pity? Why did Whitney pity her? Guinevere had everything now—Weston by her side, a career, and a secure family. What could Whitney possibly have to feel sorry for?
Whitney had been at the peak of her popularity when she married Weston’s father. She gave it all up to become a housewife. In many ways, Guinevere saw herself as superior. She had never had to give up her dreams. She had everything she wanted. So, why did Whitney look at her with pity?
As the two women stood in the corridor, Weston pulled his arm from Guinevere’s grasp. “Go to sleep,” he said, his voice calm and distant. His words left her with nothing to argue against.
Just as he turned to walk away, Guinevere’s emotions surged. Without thinking, she wrapped her arms around him from behind. “Weston, I really love you… Let’s not be angry with each other anymore, okay?” she whispered, her voice trembling.
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