Charles then pounded on the basement door, panic thick in his voice. "Open the door! Let us out—hurry!"
From the other side, a servant replied lazily, "Pipe it down, will you? Isn't it good enough that your boss is awake now? Miss Anderson said Mr. Harvey was injured. Mr. Green has to stay in the basement and reflect. He can come out once he realizes his mistake."
Charles clenched his fists, his chest heaving with fury. "Can't you see his old injury's acting up? He can't take much more of this! If he dies down here, will you bear the consequences?!"
The silence that followed was brief, then came the servant's uneasy voice. "I... I can't make that call. I'll go ask Miss Anderson."
But it was too late.
The pain in my chest had long since spread, suffocating, radiating in sharp pulses that drowned out everything else. The fever came next—hot, dizzying waves that made it impossible to think. I drifted in and out of consciousness, the cold floor pressing against my back, the damp air clinging to my skin like a curse.
Somewhere through the haze, I heard Charles' voice. "Sir, stay with me—we're almost at the hospital..."
When I came to, I was lying under harsh fluorescent lights, staring blankly at the hospital ceiling. The air smelled sterile. Too clean.
My mother's words echoed faintly in my mind. She had always warned me—Kayla was not the kind of woman who should be my wife. "Too complicated," she had said. "Too dangerous."
But back then, I didn't believe her.
During her recovery, Kayla had been so gentle. When I was alone guarding the tomb, she would bring meals herself, sit beside me, talk softly under the candlelight. It was in those quiet moments that I'd let my guard down. I'd fallen.
Later, when she accused me of holding her back from returning to Arlington and missing Stefan's wedding, I still defended her. What she didn't understand—what she refused to accept—was that if she had left back then, her enemies would've killed her before she even made it halfway.
And Stefan? His "forced marriage" had nothing noble behind it. The moment he assumed Kayla was dead, he latched onto another powerful family. She knew it deep down. But she didn't want the truth—she wanted someone to blame.
That someone was me.
Now that Stefan's back, I suppose she doesn't need me anymore.
The door creaked open. I instinctively turned my head, expecting Kayla.
It was Amber.
"Sir," she said, stepping inside with her usual cool expression. "The healer said you've been exposed to excessive negative energy, guarding the tomb over the years. It's aggravated Mr. Harvey's condition."
I stared at her in disbelief.
She continued, unbothered. "Miss Anderson wants you to accompany her to pray for Mr. Harvey. The car's waiting outside."
I let out a breath, sharp and bitter.
There was a time I truly believed Kayla had feelings for me. Even if the world hated me, I thought she, at least, had meant some of the tears she cried. Clearly, I was wrong.
As I tried to sit up, Charles appeared and held me down. "Sir, the doctor said you shouldn't move around just yet. Your wound needs rest."
"I'm fine," I muttered, brushing him off. "Let's go."
Kayla never changed her mind. Once she decided something, arguing with her only delayed the inevitable. I knew how this ended—I always gave in.
Outside the hospital, two cars were waiting.
I approached the familiar black car she always rode in. As I reached for the handle, the window rolled down. Kayla sat inside, her expression a mix of irritation and impatience.
"Liam," she said curtly, "take the other car."
Stefan was leaned against her shoulder like a fragile doll. The moment he saw me, he began coughing—loud, wheezing gasps that echoed like a performance.
"Kayla..." he rasped, "he's making it worse. Whenever he's near, I can't breathe..."
She immediately turned to me. "Didn't you hear him? Get in the other car. Don't make him sicker."
I lowered my gaze and turned away, forcing my legs to move despite the pain stabbing deep in my chest.
Behind me, Kayla scoffed.
"Still pretending to be pitiful? Who are you trying to fool?"
Her words hit harder than the fever.
My steps slowed. My throat tightened as I recalled another time—when I'd taken a bullet for her on our way back to Arlington. The pain in my chest from that wound had never gone away. She had wept, begged me not to die, promised if I lived, she'd never leave me.
And yet here we were.
I clenched my fists and walked faster, refusing to look back.
The second car was cold and the driver said nothing. As we drove, I could see them in the car ahead through the window—Kayla and Stefan, chatting, pointing at the passing scenery, smiling.
To anyone watching, they looked like a couple on a weekend getaway.
