Chapter 102 He Doesn't Want to See Me
Caroline drew in a slow breath, forcing her heartbeat to slow. She curved her lips into what might pass for a gentle smile, though it felt brittle.
"All right. Rest for now. I'll have the kitchen prepare something for you."
She turned, water cup in hand, and slipped quietly from the room.
The door clicked shut behind her.
Alexander lay still, listening to her footsteps fade down the hall. Only when they vanished completely did he close his eyes, lids pressing tight. He curled into himself, hands cradling his head.
What the hell was wrong with him?
By all logic, he should have pushed her away the moment she came close. Should have told her to get out, stay out, keep as far from him as possible. If she fell, if she hurt herself, even broke a bone—that would be her fault—her choice.
And yet… in the dream, that hand reaching for him without hesitation had etched itself deep into his mind. The image wouldn't let go. It gnawed at him, unsettling him.
It even left him with the absurd impression that somewhere, in some half-buried memory, Caroline had once stood before him like salvation, offering him her hand.
Downstairs in the kitchen, Caroline tied on an apron. She began laying out ingredients, chopping with steady precision. But when everything was neatly arranged, she slid the cutting board toward Kenna.
Kenna blinked, surprised. "Mrs. Hamilton… you're not cooking yourself?"
Caroline's hands stilled. A faint, bitter curve touched her mouth before she shook her head. "He doesn't like my cooking," she said quietly. "Right now he needs strength, needs his body back. I can't risk his health just to prove a point."
She lifted her gaze to Kenna. "Please. I'm asking you."
Kenna studied her, taking in the humility, the quiet submission in her stance. Something twisted in her chest. She sighed and nodded. "All right, Mrs. Hamilton. I'll do it."
Caroline stepped back, offering the occasional soft instruction—how much seasoning, how long to simmer, when to lower the heat.
Soon the food was ready, the warm scent filling the air.
Caroline retreated a few steps, putting space between herself and the tray. "He… might not want to see me," she murmured. "Better if you take it up, Kenna. Please."
Kenna gave her a look full of unspoken sympathy but said nothing more. She lifted the tray and carried it upstairs.
In the bedroom, Alexander still lay with his eyes open and empty, lost somewhere far away. The sound of the door opening made him turn his head.
"Mr. Hamilton," Kenna said, her tone light but careful, "I've brought you something to eat. You should try a little while it's still warm."
His gaze fell on the food but he didn't move.
Kenna added quickly, "I made it myself. Mrs. Hamilton didn't touch it, I promise."
His lashes flickered. After a pause, he tried to sit up. But the fever's aftermath still clung to him, sapping his strength. His arm gave out, and he nearly fell back.
"Let me help you," Kenna said, setting the tray aside and stepping forward.
He went rigid, turning his head away. "I can manage," he rasped.
She was already holding his arm. "It's fine, Mr. Hamilton. Everyone's weak when they're sick. You don't have to feel awkward about it."
She adjusted the pillows behind him until he was propped comfortably. Her voice softened, turning almost conversational. "I've been looking after you since you were a boy. You don't need to keep up walls with me."
He lowered his gaze, silent for a long moment.
When she picked up the soup bowl, stirring it gently before offering it to him, he spoke without warning. "I… said some harsh things to you before. You don't hold that against me?"
Kenna's hands paused. Then she let out a quiet sigh. "You're joking. You're the best employer I've ever had." She held the bowl out to him. "That day was my fault. I made the mistake. You only scolded me—you didn't throw me out, did you? Why would I resent you?"
She hesitated, then added in a softer tone, almost to herself, "Mrs. Hamilton doesn't resent you either."
His fingers twitched on the bowl.
She didn't resent him? Impossible.
The words sounded like a cruel joke. Kenna didn't know the whole story—how could she? Alexander remembered all too well the cold, venomous look Caroline had once given him, before her memory had fractured. That hatred had been real.
Maybe she didn't hate him now. But was the woman standing in this house truly the same as the one from before?
The thought sank heavy in his chest.
He tightened his grip on the bowl, as if to hide the shift in his expression. Without answering, he took it from her and lowered his eyes, pretending not to hear.
He lifted a spoonful to his mouth.
Kenna's cooking. The taste was familiar—so familiar it should have been comforting. But the moment it touched his tongue, something felt… off. A faint wrongness, enough to turn his stomach.
The sensation came out of nowhere, strange and sharp.
He forced it down, frowned, and took another spoonful.
The wrongness surged, heat from the broth rushing up his throat. Before he could stop himself, he turned aside and spat the mouthful back out.
The bowl slipped from his hands, tipping over. Hot broth splashed across the bed and onto his hand. The burn was instant, angry red blooming on his skin.
"Mr. Hamilton!"
Kenna's voice rose in alarm. She reached for the mess, then froze, afraid to touch the scalded skin. Her hands hovered uselessly.
The door banged open. Caroline burst in, breathless, eyes locking on the red mark spreading over his hand.
"Kenna! Cold water, now!" Her voice was sharp with urgency.
Kenna startled, then ran from the room.
Caroline crossed the space to the bed in two strides. The sight of the burn made her chest tighten. Without a thought, she reached for the still-hot bowl, her fingers closing around it. Steam bit into her skin, needles of pain stabbing deep.
Alexander's eyes flew wide. "Are you out of your mind?!" he barked.