Chapter 225 You're Her Leftover—Do Try Not to Fall Apart
Daniel suddenly shoved Alexander back onto the bed, his voice cracking with fury.
"You don't get to die! Do you hear me? You don't get to die!"
The hospital room door flew open.
Mark had been searching all night. The moment he stepped in and saw Daniel looming over the bed, his face went white.
"Let go! What the hell are you doing?!"
Mark lunged forward, shoving Daniel aside and positioning himself between him and the bed.
"What are you doing here? Who said you could come near Mr. Hamilton? Get out!"
Daniel staggered back. He steadied himself, fingers tracing the jagged scar on his face, his smile cold and unsettling.
"What am I doing?" Daniel's voice was ice. "You should be thanking me, you loyal little lapdog. If I hadn't gone back into that godforsaken forest to look for what Caroline left behind, your precious boss would be rotting at the bottom of some ravine right now. No body. No trace."
Mark's expression shifted, his gaze dropping to Alexander's immobilized leg. A chill ran through him.
Daniel turned back to Alexander, his tone razor-sharp. "Too bad I found nothing. That forest goes on forever. Too much time had passed. Not a single thing of hers survived."
He paused, then his lips curved slowly upward.
"Actually, that's not quite true."
"The biggest relic? I brought it back myself."
He stepped closer, bending down until his face was level with Alexander's.
"So, Mr. Hamilton, since you're the last piece of her left in this world, you need to understand what that means. You stay alive. You preserve yourself. If you can't manage something that simple and insist on self-destructing..."
Daniel straightened, rolling his shoulders in a lazy shrug.
"The people who truly loved her, who remember her—seeing you like this, how do you think they'd feel? If someone missed her enough to start imitating those creative little tortures you were so good at, and decided to punish anyone who 'damages the relic'... well, that wouldn't be ideal. After all, everyone knows what you were capable of back then."
Alexander's entire body went rigid.
A relic.
He was her relic.
Vicious. And undeniably true.
"Shut up! Get out! You have no right to speak to Mr. Hamilton like that!" Mark was trembling with rage, jabbing a finger toward the door.
Daniel just smiled, gave Alexander one last cold look, then limped out, dragging the leg Alexander had shattered.
"Mr. Hamilton, please don't listen to him!" Mark rushed to his side.
Alexander's lips barely moved. "He's right."
Mark froze. "Sir?"
Alexander stared at the ceiling, his face twitching as he repeated it.
"He's right."
Mark opened his mouth, but no sound came out.
Finally, he managed, "Mr. Hamilton, you haven't eaten all day. You're still injured. Please, just try something. I'll help you—"
He braced himself for another refusal, like the past few days.
Instead, Alexander said, "Bring it."
Mark blinked, then nearly sagged with relief. "Yes! Right away, sir!"
"I'll do it myself." Alexander tried to lift his bandaged hand, but the pain stopped him cold.
Mark quickly propped him up with pillows, then scooped up a spoonful of warm oatmeal, blew on it gently, and held it to his lips.
Alexander parted his cracked lips and took the spoon.
Swallowing was painful, labored, but he kept going. Spoonful after spoonful, until the bowl was empty.
Mark's eyes burned. He quickly handed him water.
Alexander drank, then lay back and closed his eyes.
Mark thought that would be it—the return to that terrible silence. But then Alexander murmured, almost to himself.
"I need to eat. I can't die."
Tears spilled down Mark's face. He bit his lip hard, trying to stay quiet.
He tucked the blanket around Alexander, cleaned up in silence, then sat down nearby to keep watch.
He didn't know if Daniel's brutal words had just shoved Alexander deeper into the dark—or if they'd somehow, perversely, given him a reason to hold on.
But at least now, Alexander seemed willing to live.
A few weeks later, Alexander was discharged.
The burns and the broken leg would take months to heal. For now, he needed a wheelchair.
Mark pushed him out of the hospital. The morning sun was bright and cold. Alexander squinted against it.
"Mr. Hamilton, where to? Ravenwood Manor? Or the office?" Mark asked quietly.
Alexander was silent for a long moment, his gaze fixed on the hazy skyline. "The villa."
Mark's grip on the wheelchair tightened. His throat worked. "Yes, sir."
When they arrived, Mark had just stepped out to retrieve the wheelchair from the trunk when he heard screaming from inside the house.
He froze, glancing at Alexander.
Alexander sat motionless in the car, half his face turned toward the villa. His expression was flat. Empty.
The front door burst open, and a figure stumbled out.
Edith.
She wore a filthy silk nightgown, barely clinging to her frame. Her skin was a patchwork of bruises—old and new. Her hair was matted, her scarred face streaked with blood and tears.
She ran barefoot, wild and unsteady. "Help me... please... let me go... you're monsters... Mom... Mom, please..."
Before she made it past the gate, two bodyguards in black suits intercepted her, twisting her arms behind her back without a word.
Then a man came striding out after her, whip in hand.
Linus.
"Still trying to run? You think you deserve mercy? This is what you earned!"
He raised the whip and brought it down hard across her back.
Edith screamed—a raw, animal sound—and crumpled.
Fresh blood seeped through the torn fabric of her nightgown.
Linus laughed, wild-eyed, and struck her again. "Scream! Go ahead! You killed Caroline! You should be rotting in hell! Mr. Hamilton let you live, and you still try to escape?!"
The whip fell again. And again. Edith's screams grew weaker.
Alexander watched without expression. Only when she was barely conscious did he give Mark the slightest nod.
Mark stepped forward and cleared his throat. "Linus."