Chapter 207 The Final Dance
At 3 AM, William woke up from the cold.
His knees had gone numb. When he stood up, his body swayed, and he had to grab the lounge chair to steady himself.
His frozen legs felt like two wooden posts, each step like walking on blades.
But he didn't care.
He leaned over and touched Isabella's face.
His fingertips met the frost crusting her skin.
"What, you want to dance?"
"Okay, I'll dance with you."
"You can do whatever you want."
He walked to her side and gently lifted her up.
Her body was rigid and cold, like an ice sculpture of a beautiful woman.
That white dress clung to her, its hem frozen solid.
He held her and walked to the center of the room.
"Isabella."
His voice was soft, as if afraid to disturb a dream.
"I'll dance with you."
He took her hand, trying to place one of her hands on his shoulder.
But her body was already rigid, unable to cooperate with such movements.
William smiled and shook his head, letting her head droop against his chest. Mottled brown liver spots covered her face.
He began to move his feet.
"I know, you want to be closer."
"You can't bear to leave me, right?"
One step, two steps, turn.
She couldn't move anymore, all her weight pressing on him.
He held her, carried her, like carrying a child who had forgotten how to walk.
"I never danced with you before," he said, his voice muffled in his throat. "I just... didn't know how to get close to you."
He lowered his head and kissed her frost-covered hair.
"Now I know how."
He kept dancing.
One step, two steps, turn.
Her feet dragged on the floor, gliding faintly across it as he moved.
He didn't feel the weight.
He felt nothing.
Only that the person in his arms was the only one he ever wanted to hold onto in this life.
Outside the window, the night was dense and heavy.
The air conditioning still roared.
In the cold air, two shadows slowly turned on the floor—one living person, one dead person, locked tightly together.
Her head rested on his chest. He looked down, his lips gently touching her cold forehead.
"I'm such a fool."
He murmured softly.
"Just seeing your eyes made me feel... You shouldn't have to suffer those wrongs."
"But I..."
William's voice caught.
"But you still did."
He kept dancing.
"You never complained."
"You never explained."
Her dangling hand swayed lightly with the turning motion.
Swaying and swaying, it bumped into the cabinet nearby.
On the cabinet sat that voice recorder.
That stiff hand swept past, and the recorder slid off the edge of the cabinet—
Landing on the floor.
William didn't stop.
He kept dancing, kept talking.
"I owe you so much. Isabella, I owe you so much..."
The recorder on the floor hit the switch when it fell.
A brief sound of static.
Then a man's voice, mixed with nightclub noise—
"...the thing about burning that woman to death, you were the main culprit..."
William's steps stopped.
He stood there, holding her, motionless.
The recording continued.
Then a woman's voice, clear, with a laugh—
"Too bad we didn't burn her to death, too."
The recording cut off.
The room fell silent.
Only the roar of the air conditioning, beat by beat, like a heartbeat.
William stood there.
He held her; she collapsed in his arms.
He didn't move.
For a long time.
So long that frost formed another layer on his eyelashes.
Then he slowly lowered his head.
Looking at her.
Looking at the person in his arms.
Those liver spots, that skin covered by frost, that slightly open mouth.
That frozen white dress.
That hand that wouldn't move.
Those closed eyes.
He looked at her.
Looked for a long time.
Then his lips moved.
"What she said..."
His voice was so hoarse it was barely audible.
"The one she said... who didn't burn to death..."
He paused.
His Adam's apple rolled several times.
"Who was it?"
No one answered.
He looked down at her.
William stared at her in his arms.
Those liver spots.
Those traces were covered by frost.
That dead face.
Suddenly, something shattered in his eyes.
That shell—that shell he didn't dare face.
"Isabella."
His voice changed.
"Isabella."
He called her, his voice trembling.
She didn't respond.
"Isabella."
He held her tight, so tight, as if trying to merge her into his bones.
But she didn't respond.
She would never respond again.
"Isabella—"
That cry tore from his throat, hoarse to the point of breaking.
He held her and knelt down.
Knelt in the center of the room, knelt beside that recorder lying on the floor.
She slipped from his arms, half-lying on the ground, her head tilted, her body striking the floor.
Like an ice sculpture toppled from its pedestal.
He reached out, wanting to touch her face.
His fingers hung in mid-air, trembling, not daring to land.
"I..."
He said "I" and couldn't continue.
The recorder still lay on the floor, that woman's voice still seeming to float in the air.
"Too bad we didn't burn her to death, too."
William stared at Isabella's face.
That rotting face.
Something fell, drop by drop, from his eyes.
Falling on her face.
Falling on those liver spots.
He reached to wipe them, wiping away tears, but couldn't wipe away those dark brown marks.
Couldn't wipe them away.
No matter what, couldn't wipe them away.
"Isabella..."
He knelt there, forehead pressed to the floor, shoulders shaking violently.
"Isabella... I was wrong."
The air conditioning still roared.
Minus 4 degrees Fahrenheit, burst pipes, frozen windows.
He knelt in the ice cellar, knelt beside her, shaking like a windblown leaf.
But she would never say "it's okay" again.
A long time later, he lifted his head.
Then he reached out and picked up that recorder.
Now he knew what Dylan wanted to tell him.
Knew why Donny had come.
William finally left that room.
When Dylan came back, he didn't expect to see William downstairs.
He had put on his suit, buttoned every button, just as William always required.
Only the frostbite on the back of his hands couldn't be hidden.
Dylan had tears in his eyes.
"Mr. Spencer."
He clutched documents in his hand, forgetting what he was supposed to do.
William sat on the sofa, looking at him.
Those eyes were empty.
"Help me arrange dinner with Juniper. I want to invite her."
His voice was hoarse, as if he hadn't spoken in three days.
"What?" Dylan froze for a long time, doubting his own ears.
The moisture in his eyes suddenly turned cold.
"Mr. Spencer..."
William didn't give him a chance to ask more questions, already standing up and heading upstairs.
He stopped on the stairs, without looking back.
"You didn't use to be this wordy."
Dylan bent down and bowed.
"I'll take care of it right away."
"Also," William's voice came from behind, "don't let irrelevant people in anymore."
Dylan stood there, watching that figure disappear around the staircase corner.
He looked down at his own hands—those documents were already wrinkled from his grip.