"I can't go home right now..."
I had just begun to explain when Franklin cut me off with a cold, mocking laugh.
"You can't go home? What could possibly be keeping you?"
His voice was laced with impatience and before I could respond, he delivered his final blow. "Quincy, enough with your games. I'm giving you two hours. If you're not back by then, I'll cut off your dad's medication."
My breath hitched sharply. The call ended before I could protest.
I never thought Franklin would use my dad's condition to threaten me.
Back then, when my dad was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer, I had searched everywhere for treatment. But not wanting to be a burden, my dad left a note and disappeared to another city.
I was frantic, searching for him desperately, so lost in my panic that I almost got hit by Franklin's car. Instead of getting angry, he had stepped out, taken one look at my tear-streaked face and gently asked me what had happened.
After hearing my story, he canceled his meetings and mobilized his entire company to help me search for my dad.
Eventually, we found him by a lake—thin, weak, but alive.
Upon learning about my dad's illness, Franklin didn't just offer financial support—he encouraged his employees to contribute as well. Over time, he became a familiar presence, visiting my dad at the hospital and reassuring me that he understood the pain pancreatic cancer patients endured because his grandmother had passed away from the same disease.
Later, he confessed his feelings to me, saying he had fallen for me at first sight. But I had turned him down, fully aware of the gap between our social statuses.
That didn't discourage him. Instead, he began seeking ways to treat pancreatic cancer.
Six months later, he finally heard from a friend about a special batch of medicine overseas—while it couldn't cure the disease, it could significantly alleviate the patient's suffering.
Franklin left his business behind and spent two months abroad to secure the authorization to bring this medicine to the country. As a result, his company lost a 250-million-dollar deal.
I was moved and overwhelmed with guilt, breaking down in his arms. That was the moment I accepted his confession.
All these years, no matter how unpleasant things got between us, he had never used my dad's situation against me. This was the first time—and it made my heart go cold.
I couldn't risk my dad's life.
Enduring the pain, I left a note for the young nurse and slipped out of the hospital. By the time I got home, Franklin was already gone.
Anya was lounging on the sofa in her loungewear, playing on her tablet, her feet happily kicking in the air. She didn't look the least bit unwell.
Seeing me return, she put down her tablet and walked up to me with a sneer, tugging at my hospital gown.
"Oh, you're back? I heard you lost your baby. What are you even coming back for?"
Her tone was mocking, her eyes bright with satisfaction.
"Oh, right. You still have that deadbeat father, barely clinging to life, courtesy of my brother's generosity."
My fists clenched tightly at my sides. I bit my lip, forcing myself to remain calm. In my current state, I couldn't afford to provoke Franklin. And more than anything, I was afraid he'd take his anger out on my father.
"Oh? Why aren't you saying anything? Do you know what you look like right now?"
Anya circled me, her voice dripping with cruelty. "You look like a dog that can't even bark."
Her words stabbed deep, but I refused to react. I forced my pale face to remain expressionless and hurried into the kitchen.
Two hours later, I had finished making the porridge. My arms ached from the effort and sweat dripped from my forehead. The heat from the stove had only worsened my dizziness, but I pushed through, determined to avoid giving Anya any more reasons to torment me.
I placed the bowl carefully on the dining table. Anya scooped up a spoonful, her expression unreadable. But before she could even taste it, she flung the hot porridge at me.
I gasped, but I couldn't dodge in time. The scalding liquid splattered across my chest and forearm, searing my skin.
Anya looked at me in disgust.
"You reek and you still dare to cook for me? Who knows if you put something disgusting in it just to spite me?"
The pain burned deep, but I refused to give her the satisfaction of seeing me break.
I frowned, too exhausted to argue with her.
