Guinevere curled up in the rocking chair, draping a thick blanket around her shoulders as her gaze wandered out across the distant landscape. The gentle sway of the chair was soothing, but her heart remained restless.
These days, there were fewer and fewer things for her to do. Even visiting Zachary had been taken from her.
In her case, there would be no hospital stay. Instead, the Ford family arranged for a private doctor to visit in secret. Within their elite circle, any whisper of mental illness was considered a scandal—something to be hidden away, locked behind gilded doors. If word ever leaked out, the two powerful families would surely find a way to cover it up.
The fewer people who knew, the better.
A chill breeze brushed the balcony, prompting Guinevere to pull her coat tighter around herself. She turned and said to the nearby nanny, “Have the driver get the car ready. I’m going out.”
“Yes, Miss.”
Wendy didn’t object to her leaving, though she offered a soft reminder. “Please be back early this evening.”
Guinevere gave her a polite nod. “Of course.”
But deep down, she found it laughable. Come back early? For what? Zachary didn’t even need her anymore. What was the point?
Still, she masked her thoughts behind a composed smile, bid Wendy goodbye, and walked out the door.
At the Hospital – Henry’s Ward
In the quiet hospital corridor, a nurse wheeled Henry slowly back to his room. As they neared the doorway, he noticed someone standing inside—Guinevere.
His expression remained neutral, eyes flickering to the nurse beside him. The nurse understood immediately and slipped out, closing the door behind her with a soft click.
The moment the door shut, Guinevere seemed to come to her senses. She turned around, forcing a smile. “You’re back.”
“You seemed miles away,” Henry replied, his voice calm. “What were you thinking about?”
Guinevere hadn’t even noticed his return. Her mind had been completely elsewhere. She looked down, shadows passing over her face. “The same things as always.”
There was a pause before Henry added, “I heard… you might have postpartum depression.”
Though the families had tried to contain the information, word had slipped out. Whispers began circulating—rumors that Guinevere had become emotionally unstable after giving birth. To most, it wasn’t surprising.
Guinevere said nothing. Instead, she walked behind Henry, gently pushing his wheelchair toward the sofa. After settling him, she poured him a glass of water and handed it to him.
Henry accepted it with a faint nod, took a sip, and set the glass down on the table.
“Did you come here just to talk to me?” he asked, his voice even.
Guinevere’s expression faltered. She lowered her eyes, guilt creeping into her features. She knew she had come to him more than once—always because of Weston.
“I’m sorry, Henry. I didn’t mean to trouble you.”
A soft smile tugged at the corners of Henry’s lips. His expression remained composed, but there was a gentleness in his voice. “You know I’d never say no to you.”
Her eyes welled up with tears at his response. In this world where everyone demanded something from her, Henry was the only one who let her be vulnerable.
“I really don’t know what to do anymore…” Her voice trembled. “I thought having a baby would bring us closer. I thought it would fix things. But instead, we’ve only drifted further apart.”
Henry said nothing.
His gaze was fixed on the surface of the glass coffee table, where soft light reflected from the overhead lamp. Several bouquets of flowers sat nearby—left by well-wishers who had visited. He didn’t care for flowers. But someone he once knew did.
His thoughts wandered, his mind drifting to that person.
Guinevere kept talking, pouring out her thoughts and pain. But she noticed the silence stretching too long. Finally, she looked at him and asked gently, “Henry… what’s wrong?”
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