Right then, Lydia's hand slipped, pressing a bit too hard on his wound.
Henry sucked in a sharp breath.
Startled, Lydia pulled her hand back, the cotton swab dropping to the floor.
She bit her lip and looked up. Henry's face had gone dark.
Panic rose in her chest. She took a step back.
-I'm sorry...
Seeing her flustered only deepened the cold in his eyes.
Without warning, he grabbed her wrist and yanked her forward. Her balance shifted, and she stumbled right into him.
Before she could react, his fingers were at her chin, forcing her to look up.
"Scared?" he asked, voice low and unreadable.
She froze, then slowly nodded.
Of course she was scared. She hadn't meant to hurt him. She was just trying to help. But she'd made it worse-again.
Then it hit her-he might've misunderstood her reaction.
Her face paled. She shook her head quickly and signed, hands trembling.
-I didn't mean it like that. I was just startled...
Henry stared at her, eyes narrowed.
"Startled?" he echoed. "Or guilty?"
Lydia looked confused.
He let out a cold laugh. "You forgot, didn't you? Who's responsible for this busted leg of mine?"
His tone turned venomous, and Lydia's stomach twisted.
She raised her hands again, desperate.
-That's not what I meant. Please... don't twist it like that.
"Oh?" he said, stepping closer. "Then what did you mean? Coming into my room in the middle of the night... hoping for what, exactly?"
His gaze flicked over her-not lewd, but sharp. Accusing.
Lydia's eyes widened, stung by the implication.
"Henry, how could you think that of me? I just wanted to treat your wound..."
"Treat me?" His voice was bitter now. "You already hurt me years ago. You and your damn family-"
He cut himself off, jaw clenched.
Lydia stood frozen, her breath shallow.
Henry looked at her again, and something unfamiliar flickered in his eyes-pain, sharp and buried, with a flicker of vulnerability he couldn't quite hide.
"You should stop looking at me," he muttered. "Like I'm some broken thing you can fix."
That hit harder than any shout.
Lydia's lip trembled. Her hands lifted again.
-I wasn't trying to fix you. I just didn't want you to be in pain.
He stared at her for a long moment, then suddenly turned away.
"Get out."
She didn't move.
His voice dropped-tight, restrained.
"Go. Before I forget what little control I've got left."
That time, she listened.
She bent down, picked up the discarded kit with trembling fingers, and walked out without another word.
The door clicked shut behind her.
For a while, Henry stared at the slammed door in silence, then wheeled himself into the bathroom.
But he couldn't get the image out of his head-how gently she had been tending to his wound just moments ago.
Damn it. He was losing control. For a moment... he'd wanted to believe her.
Sitting in the tub, his eyes bored into his twisted, useless leg. He shut his eyes tight, pain twisting his face.
Bang-
He clenched his fist and slammed it against the wall. The next second, icy water poured over him, washing away the chaos in his mind.
...
By the time he came out of the bathroom, he looked composed again, like nothing had happened.
Just then, his phone rang.
It was his mother, Helen Bailey.
He frowned. She'd been acting weird ever since that accident ten years ago. And after he took over the company, they'd pretty much avoided speaking unless necessary.
Yet lately, she couldn't seem to stop calling-mostly about Clara.
He hesitated, then finally picked up.
