There was a long silence on the other end before Weston finally responded, his voice low and unreadable.
“Okay.”
Stella had braced herself for resistance, but his quiet agreement caught her off guard.
“I’ll have the driver pick you up tomorrow,” he added after a pause.
Weston glanced across the room at Guinevere and let out a long sigh.
Stella hesitated, surprised by how easily he had conceded. She was just about to say something when she heard another voice—soft and female—coming from his side of the line.
She froze. Her grip on the phone tightened. “Are you busy right now?” she asked cautiously.
Weston, still in the Ford Mansion’s study, heard her question and opened his mouth to answer. But just before he could speak, there was a knock at the door—sharp, but fleeting.
Without waiting for a response, Guinevere stepped inside.
She walked over, uninvited and poised, and said, “Weston, Mom and Dad only gave us one room.”
Stella heard her voice through the receiver, crisp and unmistakable.
In the next instant, the line went dead.
A long beep echoed from the phone speaker. Stella slowly lowered the device and stared blankly at the screen, her mind momentarily empty.
The television was still on, playing some dull late-night program. Its flickering light reflected faintly on her pale face. Without emotion, she tossed the phone onto the coffee table and closed her eyes.
She had never felt so tired—not physically, but deep in her soul.
Meanwhile, in the Ford Mansion’s study, Weston slowly rose from his seat. His gaze swept to Guinevere, who stood with a faint smile and calm composure—so different from her earlier outburst when she’d tried to strangle Zachary.
“I told you before,” Weston said, his voice cold, “knock before entering my study.”
Guinevere met his eyes and replied calmly, ignoring the reprimand. “Just now, when we were downstairs, you told our parents you’d agree to the wedding. I thought you had finally made up your mind…”
She reached out, resting her hand lightly on his arm. Her fingers began to slide slowly up and down, the meaning behind her touch impossible to misinterpret.
“Weston…” she whispered, leaning closer to him.
But Weston stepped back, cutting her off. “You’ve had a long day. You should get some rest.”
Without another glance, he brushed past her and walked toward the door.
Guinevere stood there, stunned, watching his retreating figure. Her eyes filled with tangled emotions—confusion, frustration, unwillingness. She clenched her fists.
She had invested too much, waited too long, sacrificed too much to give up now.
Stella was supposed to be dead. She had been gone for so long. Even when she was alive, she had never won. So how could she win now?
A dead woman wasn’t a threat. Guinevere repeated this to herself like a mantra. She believed it. She had to. She told herself that sooner or later, Weston would come around. It was just a matter of time.
After Mr. and Mrs. Cohen left, Guinevere took a deep breath and composed herself. As always, her steps instinctively led her toward the children’s room.
But when she got to the door, she found Wendy standing there.
Wendy looked at her with conflicted eyes. “What are you doing here?”
Guinevere stopped in her tracks, unsure how to respond.
“I just wanted to check on him. I’m not going to do anything…” Her voice trailed off.
Wendy’s face was unreadable. “Did you forget what happened this afternoon?”
She sighed, rubbing her temple in exhaustion. “It’s not that I don’t want you near him, Guinevere. But the way you acted earlier…”
She didn’t finish the sentence, but the meaning hung heavily in the air.
Guinevere lowered her eyes, stunned into silence. “I’m sorry… I don’t know why I acted that way.”