Chapter 51
In the parking lot, Gemma leaned against the car door, her face pale and sallow, a sheen of cold sweat beading across her forehead.
Her chest had started to ache again—that tight, suffocating pain—and her breathing came in short, rapid gasps. It felt like something heavy was pressing down on her, stealing the air from her lungs.
Allegra stood nearby, eyes glued to her phone, oblivious to her mother's distress.
"Allegra..." Gemma's voice came out weak and threadbare. "I don't feel well. Can you... help me?"
Allegra glanced up, her brow furrowing slightly.
She didn't know anything about medicine, but seeing her mother in such obvious discomfort, she couldn't just ignore it.
Biting her lip, she rummaged through her purse and pulled out a small ceramic bottle filled with pale yellow powder.
Sterling had given it to her—some kind of special remedy from back home, he'd said. Fast-acting pain relief, but not something you could take long-term.
She tapped a bit of the powder into her palm and held it out. "Mom, take this."
Gemma hesitated. "What is it?"
"Medicine. You'll feel better." Allegra's tone carried a hint of impatience.
Gemma wavered for a moment, then accepted it, washing the powder down with bottled water.
The powder tasted faintly bitter, with an odd, metallic edge.
She leaned back against the car, eyes closed, waiting.
Miraculously, after a few minutes, the crushing tightness in her chest began to ease. Her breathing smoothed out.
She opened her eyes and exhaled shakily, grabbing Allegra's hand. Her eyes glistened with tears. "Allegra, you're the only one who cares about me. When I feel awful, you're the only one here. That ungrateful daughter of mine just makes me miserable."
Allegra smiled faintly but said nothing.
Gemma stared at the little ceramic bottle in her hand, marveling. "Allegra, this stuff works wonders. It's almost as good as that Dr. Sinclair's medication everyone's talking about. I heard Solsticex is impossible to find—people are paying through the nose for it. If you sold this, you could make a fortune."
Allegra's smile froze.
She lowered her eyes, slipping the bottle back into her purse. "Mom, don't worry about it. I have my own plans."
She could never sell this medication.
Sterling had warned her—there were illegal components in it. Fast-acting, yes, but addictive. Strictly under-the-table. She couldn't even let anyone know where it came from, let alone put it on the market.
Seeing her daughter wasn't willing to discuss it further, Gemma let it drop.
Her gaze drifted past the parking lot to the nursing home's white main building.
In the garden, a few women around her age sat basking lazily in the sun, chatting and laughing with their caregivers, faces serene and content.
Gemma stared at them, envy pooling thick and dark in her chest.
She thought of her own life—years spent worrying about the business, keeping up with other society wives, never a single day of real peace.
If only she could live in a place like this. Someone to wait on her, someone to wheel her around the grounds. No worries at all.
How wonderful that would be.
"When I have money..." she murmured, still staring at the white building, "I want to live like that too."
Allegra stood beside her, listening, her eyes darkening.
Gemma didn't notice her daughter's expression, still lost in her daydream. "I wonder how much it costs per day. Probably not cheap. But it doesn't matter—once we get back on our feet, I'm coming here to enjoy myself..."
Allegra looked away, glancing down at her purse.
The little ceramic bottle rested quietly inside. She fastened the clasp, then looped her arm through Gemma's, her voice turning sweet. "Mom, let's go. Get in the car and rest properly."
Gemma nodded, and the two of them turned toward the deeper end of the parking lot.
Meanwhile, inside the nursing home lobby, Preston still stood by the glass doors, eyes fixed on the hallway.
He'd been waiting forever. His legs had gone numb. But Lucinda never appeared.
What he didn't know was that Lucinda had been aware of him waiting the entire time.
After finishing the check-up arrangements for Wesley and Valencia, she'd led them out through the back entrance.
The back door opened onto a quiet path lined with osmanthus trees, their sweet fragrance drifting through the air.
Valencia walked arm-in-arm with Lucinda, in high spirits. After a few steps, something seemed to occur to her. She turned to her daughter. "Cindy, when your brother was handling the paperwork earlier, the receptionist said someone had already taken care of everything—full coverage, the best package. That person... was it you?"
Lucinda glanced at her. She didn't deny it. "Yes."
Valencia stopped in her tracks.
She turned to look at Wesley. Both their eyes welled up.
Wesley said nothing, but his throat worked as he swallowed hard. He reached out and patted Lucinda's shoulder, the touch gentle, restrained.
Valencia clutched Lucinda's hand, tears finally spilling down her cheeks. "Cindy, you... you're still so young. How come you're so thoughtful about things? You're already taking care of your grandmother. How can you be thinking about us too..."
Lucinda watched Valencia—moved and heartbroken in equal measure—and felt something shift inside her chest.
She thought fleetingly that it was a good thing they didn't know she owned the entire nursing home. Otherwise they'd probably cry even harder.
"Mom, don't cry." Her voice came out soft, edged with an unfamiliar tenderness. "You're my parents. It's what I should do."
Valencia only cried harder, gripping Lucinda's hand.
Wesley stepped forward, pulling a bank card from his pocket and pressing it into Lucinda's hand. "Take it. We're happy you're spending money on us. But you need to keep some for yourself. Don't give it all to us."
Valencia quickly fished another card from her purse and shoved it into Lucinda's other hand. "This one too. The last one I gave you didn't have a high enough limit. This one's better—use it however you want."
Francis wasn't about to be left out. He pulled a black card from his wallet and held it out. "Mine too. Don't refuse, or I'll stop calling you my sister."
Lucinda looked down at the three cards in her hands, then up at the three faces staring back at her—each one silently screaming, 'If you don't take these we're going to lose it.'
She was quiet for a beat. Then she slipped the cards into her pocket. "Fine. I'll take them."
Valencia broke into a tearful smile, patting her hand. "That's my girl. Come on, let's go home. I'll have Uma make you some soup."
Francis grinned. "Mom, you're so biased. When I come home, you never have anyone make me soup."
"You're tough as nails. What do you need soup for?" Valencia shot him a mock glare, but her eyes were full of warmth.
The four of them headed toward the parking lot, chatting and laughing.
Then, rounding the corner, Lucinda's steps faltered.
At the entrance to the lot, a black Maybach sat waiting.
Reginald leaned against the driver's side door. He wasn't on his phone or looking at anything else—just standing there, eyes fixed on the nursing home.
The moment he saw Lucinda, his face lit up.
He straightened, striding toward her. His gaze swept over her, quick and searching, making sure she was all right. Only then did he exhale.
"What are you doing here?" Lucinda asked, looking up at him.