In terms of appearance, Guinevere was leagues ahead of Stella. Stella, with her simple and unadorned look, had nothing more than a pleasant face. She rarely wore makeup and often left her face bare, which made her blend into the background of any room. Her features were delicate but lacked the striking beauty that could turn heads.
Guinevere, on the other hand, was a natural beauty, born into privilege and groomed from a young age to shine in the spotlight. She had been pampered and cared for her entire life, and her beauty was meticulously maintained. Her genes were impeccable, and her career in the entertainment industry had only polished her looks further, making her stand out wherever she went.
From a purely aesthetic standpoint, Stella was no competition for Guinevere. Yet…
Guinevere closed her eyes, pain etched across her face as her mind whirled with questions. “Why did Weston marry her back then? She wasn’t outstanding in any way, was she?”
If Stella had been an extraordinary beauty, someone whose looks surpassed her own, Guinevere might have understood Weston’s choice. After all, it would be like choosing the most expensive vase or the most dazzling piece of jewelry—purely based on looks and value, without any emotional attachment. But Stella didn’t fit that mold. She was simply “decent,” with pleasant features, but nothing that would explain why Weston would choose her over countless other women who were equally or more beautiful.
Henry, who had been listening quietly, wheeled himself to the window, his posture betraying his impatience. Guinevere, sensing that she had already exhausted her complaints, reluctantly rose to her feet.
“Alright, let’s stop talking about me,” she said, trying to change the subject. “I came here to tell you something important—Weston and I went to Freemont City to speak to Dr. Quirk about your leg…”
She noticed the dim light surrounding Henry as he turned his back to her, and she instinctively moved toward him. “She won’t be coming back. Henry, even if you stay in that wheelchair for the rest of your life, she’ll never return to you.”
Henry remained silent, but she continued, her words now laced with a hint of finality. “Forget about her. Move on.”
From where she stood, Guinevere could only see Henry’s back. His features were unreadable, and she couldn’t see the coldness in his eyes, nor could she notice the plant he had been caring for—the one he now crushed in his hands, its green leaves falling like tears as its sap seeped through his fingers.
After a long pause, Henry’s lips curved upward in a faint, almost bitter smile. “You’re right. We should always be moving on in life.”
He pushed his wheelchair away from her, as though nothing had happened.
Normally, Guinevere would have taken the hint and left, but today was different. Frustration was building inside her, and despite knowing that Henry wasn’t interested in hearing more, she couldn’t help herself.
“When we were in Freemont City,” she started, “do you know who I met at Dr. Quirk’s house?”
Henry glanced up at her, indifferent. “Who?”
Guinevere looked down at the white table, gathering her thoughts. “I saw a woman there who looked a lot like Stella. In fact, I think… it might have even been her.”
She muttered to herself, “Could two people look so similar?”
Meanwhile, Stella had just returned home, trying her best to be quiet. She knew Roger would be asleep by now, but as she stepped inside and hung her keys at the door, she heard footsteps in the hall.
Looking up, she saw Roger still awake. He had just come out of the bathroom, his skin damp from the shower, drying his hair with a towel. He glanced at her with a slight frown.
“Why are you back so late? I thought you’d be spending the night outside,” he asked.
Stella let out a sigh, shrugging off her jacket and hanging it on the coat rack. She walked over to him and gently rubbed his forehead. “Washing your hair this late? You’ll get a headache tomorrow morning if you’re not careful.”
Roger, being taller than her, leaned down so she could reach his forehead with ease. He wrapped his arm around her shoulder, and they sat down on the couch together.
“You haven’t told me,” he said, his tone light but curious, “whose house did you just visit?”
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