Chapter 169
Through the haze, Margaret heard a familiar, desperate roar.
She summoned her last strength to open her eyes and saw a struggling shadow pressed against the glass wall.
The tall, dignified Richard looked like a helpless child, his bloodshot eyes filled with a shattered fear she'd never seen before.
So he could feel afraid too.
A miraculous will to live rose within her—she refused to die like this in front of him.
The cardiac monitor showed faint fluctuations.
"Heartbeat returning!"
"Blood pressure rising!"
"She's stabilizing!"
Richard slid down the wall to the floor, burying his head in his arms, his shoulders trembling.
Rex offered him water: "Mr. Neville, Ms. Kennedy is out of danger."
He let out a muffled sob.
Margaret awoke at dusk.
Sunset bathed the hospital room in orange light. The pain had subsided from a raging storm to a gentle drizzle.
She was still alive.
The scent of cedar mixed with tobacco lingered in the air.
She opened her eyes to see Richard's exhausted profile just inches away.
He sat in the visitor's chair, dozing against the backrest.
He had lost considerable weight—his cheekbones sharper, eye sockets hollow, stubble dark, his suit wrinkled.
Sensing her gaze, he snapped awake.
Their eyes met.
His were bloodshot, his pupils contracting violently.
That gaze held the lingering shock of a near-catastrophe, the wild joy of recovery, and the careful dread of what might have been.
He opened his mouth but couldn't speak, just staring at her as if she might vanish if he blinked.
Margaret watched him silently, remembering the frantic, desperate Richard outside the glass wall before she lost consciousness, the image slowly merging with the haggard, silent man before her now.
Finally, Margaret was the first to look away.
She moved her parched lips, her voice raspier than expected, "Water."
Richard seemed to jolt from his daze.
He stood abruptly, the movement so sudden that his chair scraped loudly against the floor.
He turned to pour water, his movements betraying his awkwardness and uncertainty.
He tested the temperature, replaced it with another glass, fussed over it twice before finally returning to her bedside with water at the perfect temperature.
He wanted to help her sit up, his hand extending halfway before stopping mid-air, afraid to touch her.
Margaret pushed herself up slowly, using the mattress for support.
This simple action drained what little energy she had gathered, leaving her back damp with cold sweat.
She accepted the glass, letting the warm liquid slide down her throat.
She drank slowly, finishing the water before handing the glass back to him.
"Thank you."
The words were soft, emotionless.
But to Richard, they landed like an avalanche.
He stood frozen, holding the empty glass.
In his exhausted, reddened eyes, a faint light kindled.
He had prepared for her anger, her questions, for her to tell him to leave.
He was ready for the worst responses, but not for this calm "thank you."
Was she thanking him for the water, or for something more?
He dared not think too deeply or ask.
He only felt that his heart had room to breathe again.
"You..." his throat was painfully dry, his voice rough, "you should rest."
After speaking, he seemed unsure what to do next, so he returned to the simple visitor's chair, sitting with perfect posture.
Margaret didn't acknowledge him further. She lay back down and closed her eyes.
She was truly exhausted, having just survived a medical emergency.
She wasn't grateful to him, much less forgiving.
But in that near-death moment, she had suddenly realized with clarity that this Richard would truly fall apart at the prospect of her death.
This knowledge brought no satisfaction or emotion—only a deeper exhaustion.
It seemed that hating someone to the extreme meant only wanting to see them suffer equally.
Now that she had seen it, she found she gained nothing from it. It all felt absurd.
In the days that followed, Richard moved into the spacious isolation room.
He tried to care for her.
When the nurse brought nutritional meals, he would rush to take them, clumsily opening the containers, scooping up a spoonful of porridge, and offering it to her.
Margaret would turn her head away and say, "Mr. Neville, you're blocking the light."
Richard's hand would hover in mid-air, a flash of embarrassment crossing his face.
When Margaret's assistant visited next, this was the strange scene she encountered.
"Send the European project updates to my email," Margaret said without looking up, breaking the awkward silence. "Also, check on recent ownership changes at the Kennedy Group."
"Oh—right, of course," the assistant immediately switched to work mode, though her eyes couldn't help drifting toward Richard.
Richard closed his laptop, stood up, and walked out without a word, leaving them alone.
As soon as the door closed, the assistant moved closer, lowering her voice, "Ms. Kennedy, what's going on? How did he get in here? He hasn't done anything to you, has he?"
"What could he possibly do to me?" Margaret's lips curved in a cold smile. "Read financial reports? Analyze stock charts?"
The assistant was taken aback by this cold humor, then grew concerned again, "But him hovering around like this—it can't be good."
"Let him be," Margaret's gaze returned to her documents. "It doesn't hurt to keep an eye on him."
The assistant was confused but, seeing no signs that Margaret was being coerced, swallowed her questions and began reporting on business matters.
"Ms. Kennedy, about the Kennedy Group you asked me to look into... the situation isn't good." The assistant's expression grew serious. "Your third uncle, Bentley Kennedy, has been making big moves. He's allied with several old shareholders and is actively diluting your shares."
Margaret's finger paused mid-swipe on her tablet.
Her mother had died young, leaving her thirty percent of the Kennedy Group—making her the largest shareholder.
In the past, the Neville family name had kept these people in check. But since her "divorce" from Richard and news of her illness, some had grown bolder.
"What does he want?" Margaret asked.
"He's trying to transfer the land parcels your mother left you to his new company at an absurdly low price. Those parcels... they've increased in value at least tenfold." The assistant grew increasingly indignant. "It's nothing short of robbery!"
Margaret fell silent.
She thought of her mother—that gentle southern woman who had lived peacefully, whose greatest wish was for her daughter's happiness and safety.
Those shares and land parcels were the last security and foundation her mother had left her.
Now, these so-called relatives were trying to devour this security while she lay seriously ill.
"Arrange for my discharge," Margaret suddenly said.
"What?" The assistant was alarmed. "Ms. Kennedy, your condition—"
"I know my own body," Margaret's eyes regained their cold sharpness. "During this chemotherapy window, I can recover at home. Some matters, if not handled now, will be too late."
Her illness had nearly cost her future.
But she couldn't lose her past before losing her future.