Chapter 4 Another Act of Disguise
Cecilia had long accepted that there was no bond of father and daughter between her and Brad. But she had never imagined that the man she still called "father" would one day hold Patrick's life over her head like a weapon.
The threat drained the last bit of strength from her. She felt herself collapse inward, like a balloon left to wither.
"I've spent years keeping your grandfather alive," Brad said, his voice thick with self-righteousness. "That's more mercy than you deserve. You should be grateful."
A bitter laugh escaped her. Her eyes locked on his, unflinching. "Grateful? For lying to my grandfather? For branding me a bastard so I can never show my face in public?"
Something in her words struck him. His face twisted; his hand snapped out and struck her hard across the face.
Her body was already frail from years of drug trials for Blair. The blow split her lip, blood spilling over her teeth. Brad froze for a moment at the sight—but Cecilia only wiped the red away with the back of her hand, as if this were nothing new.
"Think carefully," he said coldly. "Patrick's life is in your hands." With that, he turned and walked away, leaving her with the sharp outline of his retreating back.
There was no time to wallow. She pushed herself up, each step a battle, and made her way to Patrick's hospital room.
The day she learned her own time was running out, her only thoughts—besides the ache she still carried for Rufus—were for Patrick. If she died, would Brad continue paying for Patrick's care?
She opened the door. The steady beep of the monitors filled her ears, replacing the warm voice she once loved. She hated that sound; hated that it had become Patrick's only way of speaking to the world.
Three years ago, the car crash had shattered him. The doctors had saved his life, but left him trapped in a body that no longer obeyed him. Whenever Cecilia had nowhere else to go, she came here, sitting by his bed for an hour or two. Sometimes she talked. Sometimes she said nothing at all.
A tear slid down her cheek. She wished she could hold him one more time, taste his cooking one more time… before the end.
"Grandpa, I'm sorry I wasn't strong enough." She lifted his hand and pressed it to her face.
From the beginning, she had doubted the crash was an accident. Patrick had always been a careful driver—never reckless, never one to break the rules.
Yet the report claimed he had run three red lights that day, pushed the car to its maximum speed, and lost control before slamming into the guardrail.
For years she had searched for the truth, but an unseen hand always blocked her path, snapping her leads in half before they could take root.
She would not stop.
"Even if it's the last thing I do, I'll get justice for you," she murmured.
Half an hour later, she left the room, her body dragging her back toward her own bed. At the door, she found Rufus's secretary, Noah Fields, waiting.
Noah gave her a curt nod, his eyes full of disdain.
She didn't need to ask—Rufus was inside.
A weary smile tugged at her lips. She had never had the strength to refuse him.
When she opened the door, Rufus turned, his gaze locking on her. To her surprise, he didn't ask where she'd been. Instead, he slid a file across the table toward her.
"Your body's developed resistance to this batch of drugs," he said, his tone flat. "And they're not producing the results I want. I'm stopping them." He exhaled smoke in a slow curl.
Cecilia nodded. "You've always made these decisions yourself. Why bother telling me?"
Her tone drew a flicker of irritation. He uncrossed his legs, stood, and closed the distance between them. His hand clamped around her throat, forcing her to meet his eyes.
"Cecilia, have I been too kind lately? Is that why you thought you could sabotage Blair's birthday… and now speak to me like this?"
His grip tightened. The air thinned around her, her lungs straining for breath. A strange thought flashed through her mind—maybe it would be easier to die right here, in his hands.
Just before the blackness closed in, he released her. His eyes held the same contempt one might reserve for something filthy.
She gasped, clutching her throat, dragging air into her starved lungs. He watched her, bored now, as if she were a fish flopping on dry land.
"In a few days, the research team will give you a new drug," he said. "The animal trials went well. If it doesn't harm you… you'll finally be free."
Free. The word meant nothing. She was no different from the lab rats—caged, stripped of dignity, existing only for Blair's sake.
As he turned to leave, she found herself speaking.
"Rufus."
He stopped.
"We've been married for years. Was there ever a moment—just one—when you liked me? Even a little?"
Her voice was almost pleading. Her eyes carried a weight that might have stirred pity in anyone else.
But not Rufus.
His lips curled in a cold smile. "Cecilia, stop dreaming. You dare call this a marriage? Wasn't it all part of your scheme?"
She shook her head, pain twisting her features. Why did no one believe her? Why did no one see the truth?
He went on, each word sharp as a blade. "You brought this on yourself. Since you insist on asking, I'll give you a clear answer. I, Rufus, have never liked you. Not before. Not now. Not ever. Satisfied?"
Her heart clenched, whether from the drugs or his words, she couldn't tell. Tears burned at the edges of her vision, but she refused to let them fall in front of him.
"I made mistakes, Rufus. I regret them. I regret crossing paths with you. I regret marrying you."
And most of all, she thought, I regret loving you so completely I wanted to carve your name into my heart.
Something in her tone unsettled him. She had never spoken to him like this. For a moment, she seemed like a stranger. But he shook his head, dismissing the thought.
Cecilia was a master at pretending. That was all this was—another act.