“I’m really sorry, Lillian,” Scarlett said with bright sweetness, though the apology felt rehearsed rather than sincere. “I was starving and couldn’t wait anymore.” She slipped her arm through Lillian’s as if nothing were amiss, guiding her toward the dining table with effortless familiarity.
Lillian moved slowly, each step sending a pulse of pain through her injured ankle.
When they reached the table, she stopped.
Most of the dishes were already cleared out—only scraps remained, plates half-cold and abandoned. Whatever Alexander had claimed to prepare “especially” for tonight was long gone.
She took in the sight without speaking.
A heaviness settled in her chest, dull but persistent. Disappointment. A sting of humiliation. Something quieter beneath it—something she refused to name.
“It’s alright,” she said at last, her tone steady. “I’m not very hungry anyway. You two can finish. I’ll rest.”
Before either of them could study her expression, she turned and headed toward the staircase, gripping the railing to steady herself.
Behind her, Scarlett’s voice rang out with exaggerated concern.
“Lillian? Are you upset because I started without you?”
Alexander’s low laugh followed.
“You overthink everything,” he said casually. “She twisted her ankle earlier. She’s uncomfortable, that’s all.”
There was an ease in his voice—a softness.
She didn’t need to look to know he had reached out to ruffle Scarlett’s hair the way he often did.
But she did glance back.
Just for a second.
His hand rested lightly in Scarlett’s hair, the gesture instinctive, unguarded.
Lillian’s lips parted as if to speak.
In the end, she said nothing.
Only a soft breath left her as she continued upstairs and closed the bedroom door behind her.
The quiet inside felt suffocating.
Her mind replayed the day relentlessly. One phone call from Scarlett had been enough for Alexander to leave without hesitation. Meanwhile, she had endured the clinic alone, waited alone, returned alone.
The contrast was impossible to ignore.
She forced the thought aside and focused instead on the immediate issue—her ankle.
Opening drawers and cabinets in the master bathroom, she searched for medical supplies.
Nothing.
After a few minutes, she remembered a secondary first-aid kit that had once been stored in the guest room.
Moving carefully, she made her way down the hall and crouched with difficulty near the closet.
There it was.
A thin layer of dust covered it.
Inside, she found little more than an old bottle of antiseptic—well past its expiration date.
She hesitated only briefly before taking it.
As she stood, she noticed something else.
The guest room looked freshly arranged. The bed neatly made. Clean sheets tucked with care.
She didn’t linger on that observation.
Back in the master bedroom, she lowered herself carefully onto the edge of the bed and rolled up her pant leg.
The swelling had worsened. The skin looked tight and inflamed.
She soaked a cotton pad with the antiseptic and pressed it gently to the bruised area.
Pain shot upward instantly.
A sharp gasp escaped her.
“You shouldn’t be using that.”
The voice from the doorway made her freeze.
She looked up.
Alexander stood there, holding a fresh bottle of medicinal liniment.
“That antiseptic expired months ago,” he said, stepping inside. “Didn’t you check? You’re still careless sometimes.”
His tone wasn’t harsh—just faintly critical.
He moved closer and crouched in front of her, reaching toward her ankle.
Instinctively, she pulled her leg back.
His hand paused midair.
“You don’t want me to touch you?” he asked, his voice level.
The bedside lamp cast shadows across his face, making his expression difficult to read.
She brushed a strand of hair behind her ear to avoid meeting his eyes.
“That’s not it,” she said quietly. “Scarlett’s downstairs. You should stay with her. Just leave the liniment here. I can handle it.”
He studied her for a moment longer.
Then, without warning, he grasped her ankle firmly and guided it into his lap.
The sudden movement made her flinch.
“Alexander—” she began, but the sharp sting cut off the rest of her words.
When he saw the full extent of the swelling, his expression shifted.
The faint impatience vanished.
“…I’m sorry,” he said softly.
The words stunned her.
In three years, she could not remember hearing him say that so simply.
Not when he had once left her in severe abdominal pain to attend a high-profile medical conference.
Not when she later discovered Scarlett had been present at that event—publicly introduced as someone under his personal mentorship.
But now, over a sprained ankle, he apologized.
The irony nearly made her laugh.
“Since when do you apologize?” she asked lightly, keeping her tone neutral.
He avoided her gaze, focusing on spreading the liniment carefully over her swollen skin.
“I should have checked earlier,” he admitted. “It’s worse than I realized.”
There was sincerity in his voice.
For a fleeting moment, something fragile inside her stirred—the faint echo of warmth she once relied on.
But it faded quickly.
“It’s just a sprain,” she replied with a faint smile. “It doesn’t require an apology.”
Even as she said it, she knew the apology wasn’t truly about the injury.
And that understanding hurt far more than the swelling ever could.
