Chapter 180
"Apologize?"
I repeated the word, my voice dripping with undisguised mockery, "I won't apologize. Because I did nothing wrong."
I looked into George's unfathomable eyes and said, word by word, "George, if you don't have a brain and can't tell right from wrong, I suggest you go to the hospital for brain surgery and get yourself checked out."
My gaze shifted to Tom, whose face was still ugly, my tone ice-cold, "Tom, listen carefully. Today is just a warning. Next time you dare to twist the truth and spew filth in front of me, what hits your face won't be a slap—it'll be a knife!"
I stepped forward, staring hard at his pupils that contracted slightly with fear, "When I go crazy, even I'm scared of myself. Want to try me?"
Emily once said that when I'm angry, the light in my eyes is so cold it's chilling, like it could freeze someone solid.
At this moment, I projected all that long-suppressed rage and determination onto Tom's face without reservation.
I successfully saw Tom's body shake violently, beyond his control.
He opened his mouth, seemingly wanting to say something harsh to save face. But meeting my emotionless gaze that looked like I would truly follow through, he finally flinched, looked away, and even instinctively shrank behind George.
I didn't look at him anymore, nor at George and Sarah.
I'd said what needed to be said and given enough warnings.
I turned around, straightened my back, and without giving those people behind me another glance, strode toward the parking garage elevator.
Behind me, I vaguely heard Sarah's voice, full of tears and grievance, "George, we can't just let this go. Ms. Brown went too far this time. She hit my uncle—that's like slapping my face..."
And Tom's instigation, "Young people these days are so vicious, no manners at all. I gave well-meaning advice, and yet... George, why don't you divorce someone like this? Are you waiting for her to turn the Smith family upside down?"
George never responded to these noisy voices.
Not until I reached the elevator and pressed the down button. The elevator doors slowly opened.
I walked in, turned around to face outward.
The elevator doors began to close slowly.
Just as the gap was about to close completely, cutting off the view between inside and outside, in that final moment—
I clearly heard George's voice.
Still that flat, emotionless tone, "Everyone stop. I got it."
The elevator doors shut completely, cutting off my view of those people.
Sitting in my car, gripping the steering wheel, the tightness in my chest didn't dissipate after that outburst—instead, it felt even more suffocating.
Not sadness, not hurt. But burning anger mixed with an inescapable sense of disgust.
Why did it feel like I was cursed, running into these haunting people wherever I went?
George, Sarah, Tom...
They were like a sticky, disgusting spider web. No matter how I struggled to draw clear boundaries, new threads would always wrap around me, trying to drag me back into that suffocating environment.
My phone suddenly rang in the quiet car, interrupting my thoughts.
Echo, the caregiver's name flashed on the screen.
My heart tightened—was something wrong with Mom?
I quickly answered, my voice involuntarily tense, "Echo? What's wrong? Is my mom..."
"Ms. Brown, no, your mom is fine, she's doing well." Echo's straightforward voice came through with a hint of joy, "I'm calling to tell you good news—the hospital moved your mom to a different room."
A different room?
I was stunned. This morning when I visited, the nurse said private rooms were tight and there were no vacancies.
"Where did they move her?"
"To a private room upstairs by the window. The environment is great—quiet and bright. Plus, family members staying over have a separate folding bed now, no more squeezing into chairs or sleeping on the floor." Echo sounded happy, "Your mom really likes it too. She said she can finally get a good night's sleep."
This was indeed good news.
If Mom could be more comfortable, she'd recover faster too.
"That's wonderful. Thank you for letting me know." I breathed a sigh of relief.
"No need to thank me, it's my job." Echo's tone shifted, becoming hesitant and careful, "Ms. Brown, there's one more thing I need to tell you."
"What is it? Go ahead."
"About the live-in care fees for when I come to your home to look after your mom—you don't need to pay me anymore." Echo's voice lowered a bit.
I was even more confused, "Why? Echo, we agreed that live-in care is more demanding, so the fee would be higher. I will definitely pay you, don't worry."
"No, that's not what I mean." Echo quickly explained, "Someone already paid. They settled the next month's fees in advance."
Someone already paid?
My heart sank, and I immediately pressed, "Who paid? Echo, did you see who it was?"
Echo thought for a moment on the other end, somewhat uncertain, "It was a man, tall and thin, well-dressed, strong presence. He said he was your husband, last name Smith I think? My memory... I was so happy at the time, I didn't remember clearly..."
Last name Smith...
George.
I felt an absurdly cold sensation crawl up my spine.
After hanging up, I held my phone, looking at the still-busy hospital entrance through the car window.
The tightness in my chest suddenly transformed into a bone-chilling irony that almost made me laugh out loud.
I thought, 'George, you're really something.'
One moment, at the hospital entrance, in front of everyone, he used that extremely cold tone to judge me wrong, demanded I apologize to Tom, and made it clear he wouldn't back me up.
The next moment, he quietly, behind my back, got my mom moved to a better room and even prepaid a month's live-in care fees.
What was he trying to do?
Use this condescending, charity-like approach to demonstrate his magnanimity and control?
Did he think I was still the old Grace who would be grateful and overjoyed at his slightest show of kindness, even fantasizing that he'd had a change of heart?
Did he think my dignity was so cheap? That it could be bought back with money, with a little insignificant care, and kneaded at will?
What a huge irony.
Did he think that by doing this, he could both placate me and subtly remind me: See, your situation and your family's situation are still under my control, George's control. I give, and you can have. I don't give, and you're nothing.
He wanted to use money to mock my ingratitude, to prove I couldn't leave him.
Maybe he even felt a twisted, victor's pity: See, even if you make a scene, even if you go crazy, in the end don't you still have to use my money? Don't you still have to accept my arrangements?
A strong impulse surged in my chest—to immediately call Echo and tell her to inform the hospital we wanted to switch back to the original room and return George's money.
But I took several deep breaths and forced myself to calm down.
I couldn't do that.
Not because I couldn't bear to give up that private room, or because I felt bad about the money, but because I couldn't let this matter reach Mom.
If Mom found out, she'd only think this was what George should do as a husband, as a son-in-law.
She might even think this was marital property and tell me to accept it.
I couldn't let her worry about my affairs while recovering, much less let her harbor unrealistic hopes.
I had to swallow this bitter pill myself.
And I could only keep this score for now.