Henry slowly returned to himself, pressing his fingers to his temple as if trying to chase away the fog clouding his thoughts. With a faint sigh of helplessness, he said, “We grew up together. You should know Weston better than anyone. Do you really think a child would change his mind?”
Guinevere clenched her fists, her shoulders trembling as she turned her head away. A tear slid silently down her cheek. “But I can’t go back anymore, Henry. The baby’s already here. Do you understand what that means?”
“Of course I understand,” he replied gently.
Henry wheeled himself forward and reached out, wiping the tear from the corner of her eye with his fingertips. His voice softened. “Don’t cry. Just tell me—what do you need me to do for you?”
His tenderness momentarily caught her off guard. She stared at him, almost in a daze, as if clinging to that one bit of warmth in her bleak world. After a long pause, she finally asked, “You’ve always been well-informed. Can you tell me about the woman Weston met at Lowe Garden the other day?”
She had thought it through. Weston’s movements had become more guarded lately, and he no longer updated her on his whereabouts. The only piece of information she had managed to glean was that he had met a woman at Lowe Garden. That woman was now her only lead.
Guinevere didn’t need anyone to tell her that something had changed between her and Weston. She knew—without question—that the root of the problem was Stella.
But Stella was dead.
She had died after falling from a building. A dead woman could no longer stand in her way, no longer fight or steal anyone’s attention. And as far as Guinevere was concerned, the dead didn’t linger in people’s hearts for long. At most, they left behind a shadow of guilt. After a while, even that would fade.
At least, that was what she had believed.
But now, things were different. There was someone else. A new woman. Someone alive. And that made her a real threat.
Guinevere refused to underestimate her. She could see how much Weston had changed since the day she had forced him to choose between her and Stella. And although he had chosen her, she could feel how much colder he had become.
She had turned a blind eye to that shift, choosing to ignore it, hoping the storm would pass. Weston had already promised their parents they would register their marriage soon, yet until she had the certificate in hand, her heart could not rest.
Henry listened silently to everything she said. Then, unexpectedly, he let out a low chuckle. “Gwen, you’re the daughter of the Cohen family. Why are you coming to me for help? You have more resources than anyone.”
A flush crept up Guinevere’s face. She knew this shouldn’t have been difficult for her. But things weren’t what they used to be. Weston had grown wary of her. Investigating the woman on her own would be risky—and her recent conduct had already disappointed her family. She had to tread carefully. If she pushed too hard, she risked losing everything.
So she turned to the one person who would always help her—Henry.
Henry nodded slowly. He had always been a man of leisure, never one to rush. Sitting in his wheelchair, he exuded an air of quiet fragility, but there was something almost hauntingly beautiful about him—a sickly elegance, like porcelain left too long in the cold.
“You’re already asking,” he said, catching a lock of her hair between his fingers. He twirled it lightly, almost teasingly. “How could I possibly refuse you?”
The gesture was intimate—almost sensual—but Guinevere didn’t flinch.
She knew Henry had once fancied her. He’d even pursued her openly, but she had always belonged to Weston in her heart. Later, Henry had briefly dated his young bodyguard, but Guinevere had never doubted her place in his heart. She knew she still held a special place there—one no one else could touch.
That knowledge allowed her to lower her guard with him in ways she couldn’t with anyone else.
A sigh escaped her lips. Her voice was low and wistful. “If only Weston were more like you…”
“Like me?” Henry raised an eyebrow, amused. His gaze flicked down to his useless legs. “You mean… in a wheelchair? Or left behind by everyone?”
“Don’t say that!” Guinevere immediately cut him off, her tone sharp. She hated it when he spoke that way—hated hearing him diminish himself.
“No matter what happens,” she said, her voice softening, “you’ll always be my best friend. Thank you for helping me.”
There was sincerity in her gratitude, just as there was genuine affection in her heart. In this cruel, shifting world, Henry was her one constant.
Guinevere had a flawless face, praised by many as one of the most stunning in the entire entertainment industry. But even the most beautiful faces could hide the deepest cracks.
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