Chapter 288 Do You Still Remember What Happened Back Then?
Alexander heard her footsteps pause in the hallway. Moments later, Irene returned, holding an old apron. Without a word, she simply extended the apron toward him.
Alexander's eyes welled up with tears. He almost cried.
"Thank you..."
He snatched the apron, almost as if afraid she might change her mind, and hurriedly lowered his head to tie the apron around his waist.
Irene walked to the refrigerator, opened the door, and bent down, rummaging through the bottom shelf for leafy greens. She grabbed a head of garlic and set everything on the counter.
"Start with the basics."
"Start by peeling the garlic, chopping scallions, and washing the vegetables. One step at a time."
Alexander stood at the counter, lowered his head, and picked up the head of garlic...
By the time he returned to the old mansion, it was almost dark.
Lina's call came through, her voice sharp and immediately scolding him for breaking his promise.
"Alexander, do you think my clinic is some place you can come and go as you please? Do you know how many times Elena asked me this afternoon where my white-haired assistant went when she didn't see you?"
Alexander held the phone a bit farther away.
"I'm sorry. Something unexpected happened today..."
"Something came up?" Lina's voice immediately rose. "What could possibly make you disappear for an entire day? You're my assistant now, not a patient. You can't just show up when it suits you and vanish when it doesn't!"
Alexander didn't bother to offer an explanation. He was silent for a few seconds, then just steadied his voice a bit more.
"I'm sorry. I promise I'll be there tomorrow."
The other end went quiet for a few seconds, then Lina's voice softened unexpectedly.
"Fine. Don't forget tomorrow."
The call ended.
Alexander parked in the familiar spot at the old mansion, turned off the engine, and lingered in the driver's seat for a while before finally getting out and heading inside inside.
He changed out of his coat and headed straight for the kitchen.
The servants all froze when they saw him walk in.
"Sir." The house chef approached cautiously. "If there's anything you need, just let us know..."
"That won't be necessary." Alexander shook his head, cutting him off. "Where do you keep the cream?"
The house chef hesitated, then promptly fetched a carton of heavy cream from the refrigerator and set it on the counter.
Alexander drew up a list, writing down each item he needed, then searched for the ingredients himself, placing each one on the counter as he found it.
The servants exchanged uncertain glances, unsure whether to stay or leave.
Alexander ignored them entirely. He retrieved the apron Irene had given him, tied it around his waist, then looked up.
"You may all go."
Only then did the servants seem relieved, turning to hurry out. The kitchen door closed.
Alexander stood in front of the pile of ingredients, lowered his head, closed his eyes, and went through every step Irene had taught him during the day in his mind.
When the first bowl of soup came out, the color was wrong.
It wasn't the soft, light color that cream of mushroom soup should have, but grayish, like something had dirtied it.
He tasted it. The mushrooms were overcooked, the burnt bitter taste completely overwhelming the cream's natural sweetness.
He set that bowl aside and picked up the knife again.
The second time, the flour wasn't cooked through, and the soup had a raw flour taste.
The third time, too much salt.
The fourth time, the heat was too high and the soup completely separated. Oil droplets floated on the surface, and no matter how much he stirred, it wouldn't come back together.
Alexander placed the fourth failed bowl of soup on the dining table, stood there, frowning at the four bowls lined up in a row, like staring at a problem he couldn't solve.
That's what Mark saw when he came back.
"Sir."
Mark's voice came from the doorway.
Alexander looked up and saw him standing at the kitchen door, then forced a smile.
"Mark, you're back." He looked down and pointed at the bowls of soup. "I learned cream of mushroom soup at Irene's, but I'm really not very good at it. It's a bit wasteful. I don't know what to do with what's left."
He looked up and smiled again, but his words got stuck.
Because only then did Alexander notice that Mark's eyes were red.
And Mark wasn't in his wheelchair today, nor using crutches. He looked like he'd rushed all the way back, still carrying dust and cold from outside.
The smile on Alexander's face slowly froze.
"Mark?" he called out. "What's wrong?"
Mark stepped forward and reached out to hold his arm.
"Sir, please sit down first."
Mark's voice was terribly hoarse. He almost forcefully pressed Alexander into a chair by the dining table, then crouched down and gripped his wrist.
"Sir." Mark looked up at him. "I have something to tell you."
Alexander looked down at his reddened eyes, his fingertips beginning to tremble.
"But you must hold it together." Mark's tone was almost pleading. "Don't get upset, sir. Promise me."
Alexander's expression turned completely cold.
"Tell me." His voice was very soft.
Mark took a deep breath and finally spoke.
"Sir, do you remember clearly what happened between when you were sixteen and eighteen?"
Alexander froze.
That was over ten years ago. Ten years was enough to make people forget many things, enough to make memories fragmented.
He'd never felt there was anything wrong with those memories.
He only remembered that on his sixteenth birthday, the old mansion held a party. Edith unusually wore a black dress and laughed boldly in the crowd.
He also remembered that his conflict with Linus probably started around that time. At first it was restrained, more like a hidden rivalry. It wasn't until his twentieth birthday party that night, when Linus kidnapped him, that the conflict was finally brought completely into the open.
But...
Alexander suddenly frowned deeply.
Now that Mark mentioned it, he realized his memories of that period were indeed fragmented. Even when he forced himself to recall, only brief, rapid scenes flashed through his mind, like quickly flipping through a stack of photos—visible but impossible to grasp.
He had no deeper impressions, and could hardly describe specific feelings.
Alexander's hands shook even more.
"Mark," his throat tightened, "what happened?"
Mark gripped his hand tighter.
"Sir, you must hold it together." He repeated again, then continued, "Three months after your sixteenth birthday, at a party, you accidentally took a drug. That stuff... was privately popular among young people in high society circles at the time. You didn't know it then, but from that time on, you got hooked."