Chapter 95
Dahlia fled the dining table as if escaping, her slippers slapping against the floor as she hurried upstairs, ignoring Valencia's worried voice behind her.
Lucinda withdrew her gaze, picked up her bowl, and slowly took a sip of soup.
It tasted good.
Valencia and Wesley exchanged a glance.
That look carried mutual confusion. What did Lucinda mean by that? What did she mean by "lifting a rock only to drop it on your own foot"?
Valencia opened her mouth to ask, but seeing the serene expression on her daughter's face, she swallowed the words back down.
Wesley lifted his teacup, took a sip, and pulled his gaze away from the staircase without saying anything.
Some matters were better handled between the children themselves than with parental interference.
Lucinda kept her head down and continued eating.
She speared a piece of beef, took a bite, and chewed slowly. Her expression remained unchanged from start to finish.
Upstairs, Dahlia burst into her room and slammed the door behind her.
The door collided with the frame with a dull, thunderous crash, shaking the decorative painting on the wall until it hung crooked.
She rushed to the bed and collapsed onto it, burying her face in the pillow. Her fingers clutched the sheets so tightly her nails nearly tore through the fabric.
Itchy.
Every inch of her skin itched unbearably, as if countless ants were burrowing between flesh and bone—no matter how she scratched, she couldn't reach them; no matter how she rubbed, she couldn't make it stop.
Her fingers clawed frantically at her arms. Her nails scraped across her skin, leaving red streaks. Some areas had broken open, tiny beads of blood seeping through.
But she couldn't care about the pain.
Because worse than the itching was what Lucinda had said at dinner.
Lucinda knew everything.
She knew the itching powder in the clothes had been placed by her, knew the blazer had been tampered with. So she'd deliberately returned the clothes, deliberately made her wear them, deliberately humiliated her in front of their parents at the dinner table.
And even though she'd known it was a trap, she'd had no choice but to walk into it.
Because refusing would've been admitting she'd laced the clothes.
Dahlia sat up abruptly, grabbed her pillow, and hurled it at the wall.
It hit the wall softly, bounced back, and landed on the floor—like a weak, mocking laugh.
"Lucinda—!"
Her voice squeezed through clenched teeth, every syllable dripping with venom.
She would make Lucinda pay.
Night deepened.
Lucinda returned to her room, closed the door, and sat down at her desk.
Several unread emails sat on her computer screen. She handled them one by one, her fingers flying across the keyboard.
R&D progress reports, new BlueWave Tech contracts, next month's purchasing list for the nursing home…
She went through them methodically—approving what needed approval, rejecting what needed rejection, forwarding what needed forwarding.
By the time she closed the last window, it was completely dark outside.
She leaned back in her chair, rubbing her temples. Her gaze inadvertently fell on the corner of her desk.
A picture frame sat there. The wooden edges were a bit worn, but it had been wiped clean.
In the photo, a white-haired old woman held a little girl. Both were smiling with their eyes crinkled.
The old woman wore a floral blouse. The little girl had two pigtails and held a melting ice cream cone.
It was her and her grandmother.
Lucinda picked up the frame, her thumb gently tracing the old woman's face in the photo.
Her grandmother's health had always been poor. After that illness three years ago, she'd never woken up again.
Lucinda visited her every month, administered treatments, adjusted her care, piled the world's best medical resources at her bedside.
But her grandmother remained asleep—quiet, still, like a statue.
She set the frame down, turned off the desk lamp, and lay down on the bed.
Beside her pillow, the little fox plushie sat with its hat askew, grinning that silly grin.
She reached out and flicked its ear, pulled the blanket over herself, and closed her eyes.
A dreamless night.
The next morning, Lucinda opened her eyes and reached for her phone on the nightstand. The screen displayed the nursing home's number.
Her fingers paused.
A call at this hour usually wasn't good news.
She took a deep breath, mentally bracing herself, and answered.
"Ms. Wipere, your grandmother woke up." The voice on the other end trembled with barely suppressed excitement. "This morning during rounds, the caregiver found her eyes open. She's conscious and able to communicate simply. Dr. Green has done a preliminary examination—her vital signs are stable."
Lucinda sat on the edge of the bed, her fingers tightening sharply around the phone.
She woke up?
Three years.
Over a thousand days and nights. She'd almost resigned herself to the possibility that her grandmother would never wake again.
But now, those words landed like a stone thrown into a frozen lake. Something in her chest shattered violently, hot and swelling as it surged upward.
Her breathing grew heavier.
"I'm coming now." Her voice was faster than usual, the tail end carrying a trace of barely detectable urgency.
She hung up quickly, stood, and changed clothes—moving much faster than usual, almost buttoning wrong.
Washing up, going downstairs, leaving the house—all in one fluid motion.
Valencia called after her from behind, "Cindy, come have breakfast!" Lucinda waved her hand without looking back.
The car left the estate, crossed half the city, and stopped in front of the nursing home.
She pushed open the car door and walked inside, her steps quick. Nurses in the hallway stepped aside when they saw her.
The door to the room was half-open.
She stood at the threshold, glanced inside, and her steps suddenly froze.
Cleo was propped up in bed. Her white hair was neatly combed. Her face looked much older than three years ago—cheekbones protruding, eye sockets sunken—but those eyes were open, bright and clear, gazing toward the sunlight streaming through the window.
Lucinda stared at those eyes. Her heartbeat skipped a beat.
Three years. She'd dreamed countless times of Cleo opening her eyes. Every time she woke, it was empty.
But now, those eyes were real.
She took a deep breath, lifted her foot, and walked in softly.
Cleo seemed to sense something. She slowly turned her head, her gaze landing on Lucinda's face.
In that instant, Cleo's eyes reddened. "Cindy…"
Lucinda's eyes reddened again. She walked to the bedside, bent down, and clasped the hand Cleo reached toward her.
That hand was thin as bone, veins protruding.
She held it tightly.
"Grandma." Her voice was softer than usual.
Tears streamed down Cleo's cheeks. Her other hand trembled as she lifted it and touched Lucinda's face.
Her fingertips were rough, tracing from her brow to her cheekbone, from her cheekbone to her jaw—as if confirming this wasn't a dream.
"You've gotten thinner." Cleo's lips trembled, tears falling uncontrollably. "Out there… how much you must have suffered…"
"No." Lucinda held her hand, her voice steady, though the thin layer of moisture in her eyes never fully receded. "Grandma, I'm fine."
"You've always been like this, child—only sharing good news, never bad." Cleo's fingers gently rubbed the back of her hand, her gaze clouded yet perceptive. "The Wipere family—they won't treat you well. I know. I know it all…"
As she spoke, her tears flowed harder, her throat releasing suppressed sobs.
Lucinda held her hand, her thumb gently tracing circles on the back of it.