No normal man could stay composed in front of such an impeccable face, Henry thought to himself as he regarded Guinevere’s worry. He sighed, his voice soft but firm. “Have you thought this through? Weston despises being controlled. Have you considered the consequences?”
Guinevere didn’t answer immediately, her face filled with a mix of concern and fear. Henry read her silence and understood her well. He rubbed his brow, then offered a reassuring smile. “I won’t let him know you did it. You have my word.”
“I didn’t mean that,” Guinevere interrupted quickly. “I just—”
“You don’t have to explain.” Henry’s voice remained gentle as ever, his patience infinite. “I will help you.”
After Guinevere left, Henry slowly wheeled himself to the balcony, the sunlight spilling over his pale skin like a ghostly aura. He hadn’t heard from her in a while, and the lack of contact made him uneasy. He couldn’t find her, and it scared him. She was determined to leave him, yet he couldn’t help but feel a twinge of hope. As the sun bathed his delicate features, a small smile touched his lips. Under the golden light, his beauty was almost otherworldly, making even women envious. Guinevere herself was his equal in beauty, but even she could not escape the cruel realities of their world.
The roses by the windowsill bloomed in full glory. Henry made a call, giving the necessary instructions regarding Guinevere’s request. Once the task was set in motion, he finally had time to care for the plants he so adored. A frequent visitor to the hospital, Henry had spent much of his time there, and everyone knew of his love for these plants. He wasn’t a gardener, but there was something therapeutic about tending to them.
The red roses stood out, vibrant against the sterile surroundings. Henry took one in his hand, his fingers gently curling around the delicate stem. His grip tightened, and he crushed the flower in his hand, the petals turning to mush. A small stain of red bloomed on his pale fingers. He stared at the flower for a long moment before tossing it aside. The stillness around him mirrored the emptiness in his expression—no emotion, only the quiet hum of his thoughts.
Elsewhere, with Weston and Stella:
Stella stepped forward as Weston entered, taking his coat from his hand. “I’ll help you put it away,” she said with a gentle smile.
Before she could turn to hang it up, Weston’s arms encircled her from behind, pulling her against him. The two of them stood like that, their bodies pressed together in the quiet entryway. Stella stiffened for a moment, but Weston held her tighter, his embrace firm and warm. She relaxed into his arms, though a sense of unease lingered in her chest.
She finally spoke, her voice soft. “Let me go, please. I need to put your coat away.”
Weston chuckled, his chin resting on her shoulder. “Why are you so nice to me today?” His voice was low and filled with warmth, his breath warm against her skin, sending a shiver down her spine.
Stella couldn’t avoid him. His breath seemed to follow her, teasing her senses. “Just let me hold you a little longer,” he murmured, his voice soft but demanding.
Stella, caught between the warmth of his embrace and the growing tension inside her, allowed herself to be held. She didn’t know how much time had passed—whether it was minutes or hours. All she knew was that, in this moment, the man behind her seemed content. But was he? Was this the real Weston, or just a fleeting glimpse of a softer side she couldn’t trust?
Finally, when the embrace seemed to stretch on endlessly, Stella seized the moment and tentatively spoke. “Can I go home for a few days?”
As soon as the words left her mouth, Weston’s grip around her waist tightened, the pressure making it difficult to breathe. Her heart raced, and she could feel the shift in his mood.
Skip to content