"Sebastian, thank heavens you're awake! The housekeeper phoned me last night, said you collapsed... you terrified me."
"Why are you here?" He massaged his throbbing temples, voice icy.
She blinked rapidly. "What do you mean? You told me to remain here, remember? You insisted I move in and focus on my health during the pregnancy."
She reached for his hand, attempting to guide it to her abdomen. But the memory of Alayna's blood-streaked miscarriage report surged through Sebastian's mind and he snatched his hand back. His features hardened.
Chloe paused, her tone becoming careful. "What's troubling you, Sebastian? You've been... distant since yesterday evening."
He ignored her question. Instead, he stated emotionlessly, "Return to The Grandview. It's more peaceful there. I'll arrange staff to attend to you."
Her eyes widened in shock. "You're exiling me?"
Without offering any explanation, he rose from the bed and walked toward the bathroom. When he emerged after his shower, a maid notified him that breakfast awaited.
He sat down, attempting to taste his usual bowl of congee–but the instant the flavor touched his tongue, he spat it out violently.
"Who prepared this?!" he snapped, glaring at the household staff. "It's revolting!"
The chef appeared ready to weep. "Sir... this is the identical congee I've always made for you."
"You think I can't recognize my own breakfast? This tastes completely different."
The chef hesitated before murmuring, "Sir... ever since you married Madam, she's been the one making your morning meal. She rises at five each day to slow-cook the porridge for hours, ensuring perfect consistency."
He went completely still.
Even my breakfast... had been her silent dedication all this time.
He shoved the bowl away, all hunger vanishing. Without another word, he stood and hurried toward the nursing home.
His thoughts were finally crystallizing.
Alayna couldn't have gone far.
–
She still had that frail brother she'd sacrifice everything for. As long as her brother remained in the city, she'd be forced to return.
Yes. He believed she had no alternatives.
He pressed the accelerator, his pulse quickening.
But when he arrived, the director delivered an unexpected blow. "He passed away."
He stared at the director. "Did Alayna orchestrate this? How much did she pay you?"
The director's expression soured. "Mr. Harrington, I'm employed by your corporation, but certain truths must be spoken. That night–if you hadn't blocked the main road for Miss Chloe's birthday procession, the ambulance might have reached the hospital in time."
"What are you talking about?"
The director inhaled deeply and explained the entire situation.
As Sebastian listened, cold perspiration spread across his back.
No. Impossible. Alayna was merely upset about Chloe's birthday celebration. She hired performers to create that scene for attention. That ambulance? It wasn't genuine. Her brother couldn't possibly have been inside.
He refused to accept it.
Frantically, he contacted an associate, demanding hospital records. He needed evidence. Proof that her brother remained alive.
Minutes later, his friend transmitted a photograph – a death certificate.
He added, "Alayna personally authorized it. I attempted calling you that night when she came to complete the paperwork. You didn't answer."
He struggled to recall.
That night... he'd been with Chloe, celebrating her birthday, sharing laughter and kisses beneath fireworks while his wife confronted her brother's death alone.
He swallowed with difficulty. "Where is he buried?"
"He wasn't. She had him cremated. She stated she was taking him to see the world."
Then realization struck him. The urn. That ceramic vessel Alayna carried back to the mansion – it truly contained the ashes of the person she cherished most.
Everything she'd said had been truthful.
And he hadn't trusted her.
He'd allowed Chloe to shatter that urn... while Alayna witnessed him annihilate her final remnant.
He closed his eyes, his chest constricting.
He departed the nursing home with leaden steps.
Inside his vehicle, he summoned his assistant. "Locate her. Discover her whereabouts."
Twenty minutes later, the return call came.
"Sir, the Madam has erased her identity. We cannot track her location."
Sebastian froze.
Everything he believed manageable... all the suffering he thought endurable–disintegrated.
Erasing her identity signified she'd relinquished everything.
Including him.
No. Absolutely not!
She was his wife. She possessed no authority to vanish without his consent! She invaded his existence. She demanded to remain at his side. She had no right to simply... depart!
Honestly, the room surpassed even the master bedroom I'd previously occupied at Sebastian's estate.
My throat constricted and tears threatened to surface.
Apparently, Damian detected it, because moments later he exclaimed, panicking, "Is it that terrible? Damn, I should've realized."
"Simply inform me what displeases you and I'll rectify it, alright? Please don't cry."
That's Damian's nature. He becomes completely unhinged whenever I weep. Regardless of our fiercest arguments, the moment tears welled in my eyes, he'd capitulate instantly.
Observing him standing there appearing besieged, I emitted a soft laugh.
"I won't cry, Damian." I added, "Thank you."
He exhaled in relief, then scowled. "Don't express gratitude. I detest when you thank me."
Naturally, I thanked him again, fully aware it would provoke him.
He clenched his jaw, teeth grinding. If this were years prior, he'd have retaliated with some caustic remark. But now, he simply released an exaggerated, lengthy sigh.
"You're utterly impossible."
The warmth in his tone surprised me. That familiar teasing affection–it felt foreign after such duration.
Eager to divert the subject before emotions overwhelmed me, I cleared my throat. "So... regarding that employment opportunity you promised. You haven't reconsidered, have you?"
Damian scrutinized me from head to toe, delivering that distinctive appraisal only he could execute without verbalization.
"You? In this condition? I'd likely forfeit my entire fortune within days if I permitted you to manage operations currently."
I opened my mouth to object, but he didn't permit response.
"Sit," he commanded, gently pressing me onto the bed. "Work can await. I'm reserving the position for you. Presently, your occupation involves recovery."
I attempted to protest, insisting I was completely capable of commencing work, but he interrupted again. "I've already engaged a nutritionist and personal chef for you. Don't compel me to squander resources." Then he added, "But I won't permit complete idleness. During your recuperation, I'll initiate your corporate orientation. We're not in America, Alayna. The business culture here differs. You must comprehend local practices. When you're prepared, you'll assume your responsibilities properly. Understood?"
I couldn't dispute. Damian had already orchestrated everything.