But his attention never left his phone. Not once did he spare me a glance.
Forget it.
Charles, you and I were never meant to be.
Two hours later, he fell into a deep sleep in my arms.
I slipped out of bed carefully and left the room.
The house was silent, the night deep. This was my best chance to escape.
Even without evidence, I had to go to the police.
I couldn't let Grandpa suffer for nothing. I couldn't let the people who hurt him walk free.
The night air bit cold against my skin as I rushed to the nearest police station to file a report.
After I finished giving my statement, Charles appeared.
He draped a coat over my shoulders.
"I'm so sorry about this."
He offered the officers an apologetic smile.
"My wife hasn't been well. She's been under a lot of stress lately, and her mental state has become... unstable. I apologize for the trouble."
He sighed, the picture of a weary, concerned husband.
"It's so late. I took my eyes off her for one moment, and she slipped out."
The officers exchanged glances, their gazes shifting between us.
I fought back immediately, my voice rising.
"He's lying! My grandfather is still in the hospital—go see for yourselves!"
"He's in on it too. Don't believe a word he says. I'm telling the truth. Freya forced the demolition and had people beaten!"
"I'm an attorney."
Charles produced his credentials, unhurried, unruffled.
"I trust you'll take my professional integrity into account."
The officers examined his ID carefully, then handed it back.
"Take your wife home. Keep a closer eye on her. Make sure she doesn't wander off again."
No matter how I tried to explain, no one believed me.
Charles brought me back to the house.
This home—built in the name of love—had become my prison.
I opened an app, logged into my account, and posted everything online.
If people paid attention, maybe Grandpa still had a chance.
But in the end, Charles crushed it all with a single document—a diagnosis from a doctor.
It stated, in clinical black and white, that I suffered from a psychiatric disorder.
No one doubts an attorney's word.
Every path was sealed shut.
I argued. I screamed. I even dropped to my knees and begged him to let me leave.
His eyes blazed with cold fury, indifferent and impatient.
"Have I been too lenient with you?"
"If you say one more word of this nonsense, I'll have the hospital stop your grandfather's treatment immediately."
My heart turned to ash. I didn't dare speak another word.
All I could do was tread carefully around him, terrified that one wrong move would push him to abandon Grandpa entirely.
But the call from the hospital came anyway.
It was a critical condition notice.
I nearly shattered. I rushed to the study to find him.
"Charles, Grandpa—he's dying. The hospital just called—"
My hands trembled as I held the phone out to him, my voice barely a whisper.
"This number doesn't lie. Please, just look at it. Please."
"Stop nagging."
His face twisted with irritation.
"You're really getting on my nerves."
He grabbed the phone and hurled it to the ground. The screen exploded into fragments.
My eyes burned red. Tears slid down my cheeks in silence.
Charles didn't even glance at me. He turned and walked away.
I raced to the hospital as fast as I could.
But I was still too late to see Grandpa one last time.
In the cold morgue, his frail body lay still.
The bruises from the beating were still visible on his skin—but he was no longer breathing.
I finally broke. I held him and sobbed until I couldn't breathe.
Forcing down the agony that threatened to tear me apart, I made my way back to the old family home.
The moment I stepped out of the car, I saw it.
Half the house had been demolished.
But the old safe—the one that had been there for decades—was still intact.
I entered his birthday as the combination and retrieved Grandpa's service medal, cradling it against my chest.
At the very bottom lay a document—an anonymous donation agreement from five years ago.
I glanced at it briefly, then left it where it was.
Let it stay buried forever.
