Chapter 209

Chapter 209

Octavia didn't remember how she got to the hospital.

When she came back to herself, she was already standing at the hospital room door.

The door was half-open. Monica's voice drifted out, choked with tears, fragmented and indistinct.

Through the gap, Octavia saw Leopold propped up against the hospital bed, a small bandage wrapped around his forearm.

His face was very pale, his lips bloodless, but his eyes still held their steady composure.

Leopold was looking in Monica's direction, listening to her speak.

Monica was sobbing uncontrollably, clutching Leopold's uninjured hand so tightly it seemed she feared he'd vanish the moment she let go.

Patrick stood beside the bed. He wasn't crying, but his eyes were red-rimmed, his lips pressed into a thin line. The look he gave Leopold held both worry and guilt, yet he said nothing.

Several doctors and nurses were still in the room, quietly tidying equipment and exchanging low murmurs. John stood on the other side of the doorway, on his phone, voice low but tone unyielding.

"Right. No one gets in. Mr. Seymour needs rest. If the board has something to say, they can come talk to me directly."

Octavia felt like she was hearing many voices, but they were muffled, as if separated by thick glass. She couldn't make out what anyone was actually saying.

She stared at Leopold in the hospital bed. Under the lights, his profile looked ghostly pale, his jawline tense, brow slightly furrowed as if enduring pain. Yet his gaze remained focused on Monica.

Leopold had always been a good brother. A good person.

Octavia's hands were trembling. She clenched them, trying to force herself to calm down, but still couldn't bring herself to step into the room.

When Leopold had gone missing, she'd told herself every day that he would come back. Every day she'd rehearsed what she should say, how she should respond to his refusal to divorce.

But now that Leopold was right there in front of her, she didn't dare get close.

For a moment, she couldn't tell if the Leopold before her eyes would disappear into the moonlight, like he had in that night's dream.

But the truth was, even after the dream ended, even after daylight came and the moon disappeared, Leopold was still here.

"Octavia."

Octavia's body jerked violently.

It was Leopold's voice—hoarse, low, carrying a trace of exhaustion, but tender when he spoke her name.

She met his gaze.

He was looking at her.

Not with that unfocused stare that relied on sound to locate her position. He was truly seeing her.

Seeing her face, her eyes, her expression.

At that single word, everyone in the room filed out. Monica glanced at Octavia on her way out, looking puzzled by her reaction, but before she could say anything, Patrick pulled her away.

Yet Octavia remained frozen at the doorway, feet rooted to the spot. It turned out that now that the moment of reunion had actually arrived, she couldn't do anything at all.

Leopold didn't rush her. His gentle gaze traveled from Octavia's eyes to her nose, then to her lips, her chin, her throat, and finally to her hands—clenched tight yet still trembling.

He let out a soft sigh, though the corners of his lips curved into a smile. The man everyone else saw as ruthlessly cold-blooded was now speaking words that sounded domineering, yet his tone was strangely tender, almost careful, as if afraid of making his beautiful wife sad.

"Are you angry because I won't agree to the divorce? Is that why you don't want to see me?"

His voice was still hoarse, his eyes fixed unwaveringly on Octavia. "But I'm sorry—I still have to say it. I won't agree to a divorce."

"If you want to yell at me, at least come closer to do it."

Octavia's tears spilled over all at once. She'd held them back for so long, but now everything collapsed in an instant.

She wiped at her tears with the back of her hand, but the more she wiped, the more they came. She couldn't stop them.

Finally, after what felt like forever, she felt like she could speak normally again. She walked to the bedside.

But she still didn't look at Leopold. Instead, she asked a question that wasn't exactly the main point right now.

"Your eyes are better, aren't they?"

Leopold didn't answer the question.

He looked at her tears, reached out to grasp her wrist, and guided her to sit down on the edge of the bed.

After Octavia sat, she kept her head lowered, not daring to look at him. Leopold's hand slowly rose, his fingers touching her cheek, the movement gentle.

He used the pad of his thumb to wipe the tears from her face. The motion was careful, slow, tender.

"Everyone wanted me not to come back alive," he said, voice low. "Only you still have the heart to care about my eyes."

Octavia's tears fell even harder.

She wanted to say that wasn't true—that many people wanted him to come back alive. Monica did. Patrick did. John did. The employees at the Seymour Group did too.

But she couldn't get the words out. Her throat felt blocked by something, so she could only let the tears flow silently.

Leopold patiently continued wiping her tears. His hands were cool, the pads of his fingers slightly callused, creating a faint roughness when they brushed her cheeks. But it didn't feel unpleasant.

"Don't cry," he said.

Octavia shook her head. She didn't want to cry. Before coming here, she'd told herself that when she saw him, she couldn't cry. She had to talk about the important things—ask about his condition, tell him about the situation with the board.

But the tears wouldn't listen. They kept coming, unstoppable.

"I'm sorry." After a long while, she finally managed to speak again, but the first words out of her mouth were an apology. "I'm a liar. I lied to you for so long. I lied to Monica, to Patrick, to everyone. And I made you get on that plane. I almost got you killed. Everyone who's good to me ends up unlucky."

"Octavia." Leopold cut her off.

Octavia lifted her head, looking at him through tear-blurred eyes.

"Did you not see the Seymour Group's statement?" he asked.

Octavia froze.

Of course she'd seen it.

Without thinking, Octavia placed her hand over the back of his, holding it.

She didn't look at him. She kept her head down, staring at their joined hands.

"So what does it mean?" Her voice was barely audible. "Leopold, I'm actually not that smart. Can you just tell me—what does that statement mean?"

Leopold looked at her, his gaze lingering on her lashes for a moment.

Her lashes were trembling faintly, like butterfly wings. Her fingers gripped his hand tightly, transmitting her nervousness.

After a long pause, Leopold smiled, his tone carrying a kind of amusement that even surprised himself—like he was coaxing a child.

"What else could 'Mrs. Seymour' possibly mean?"

Octavia's heart began to race.