Chapter 151 Henry, Do You Think There's Any Hope?
Grace turned to look at Henry quietly.
After a long pause, she said tiredly, "No need! Oliver gave up the appeal. Henry, you said we'd divorce after the baby was born. I ain't asking for much; I just want Taylor."
The night wind howled.
Henry stared at Grace in the dark.
She once loved him deeply, but now that love was gone.
Henry's voice was hoarse as he apologized, admitting he couldn't let go and that it was Mira who answered the phone that day.
Grace gave a bitter smile. "Henry, what's the point now?"
That night, Grace and Oliver lost their father, and Clara lost her husband. Grace almost died, and Taylor was nearly lost too. How could Henry's apology fix any of this?
She didn't know who to blame or hate. She just knew she didn't want to see or talk to him.
She tried to leave, but Henry picked her up and put her in the car.
Grace resisted, hitting him and demanding to be let out, but Henry held her tightly, his face buried in her neck, whispering apologies over and over, begging for another chance.
Grace bit his shoulder harder with each apology.
What was the use of this late apology?
Blood seeped from her mouth, staining his black shirt. But Henry didn't care; he still held her, even peeling off her coat to touch her back.
Grace was shockingly skinny, just skin strentched taut over bones, not at all like a woman who just gave birth; she was at least ten pounds lighter.
Henry kept apologizing, saying he wanted to take her home, while Grace resisted fiercely.
Finally, he cupped her face and kissed her deeply; the kiss, tinged with blood, was filled with heartbreak and deep hatred.
The driver, Sawyer, didn't dare to look.
Finally, Henry held Grace tightly and ordered Sawyer to drive back to the villa.
All the way, Henry held Grace tightly. She was so thin he could hear her bones faintly clinking together.
Half an hour later, the black Rolls-Royce Phantom drove into the villa.
The villa was brightly lit, like daytime.
The car stopped, and Sawyer got out to give them privacy.
In the dim car, Henry loosened his grip slightly but didn't let go completely.
He looked down at Grace in his arms, his voice gentle, "The baby is at home. Don't you want to see her? She's very cute, looks like both of us! She sleeps alone, but I think she misses her mom."
Tears unexpectedly fell from Grace's eyes. The baby was her soft spot.
Henry opened the car door and half-carried, half-supported Grace upstairs. Returning here felt like a lifetime ago.
A few days ago, this place was filled with blood, and she had no way to call for help. Now Henry was back, gently coaxing her to start over.
Life is so tragically absurd.
The housemaids were silent and remorseful. Grace didn't blame them. She stumbled to the master bedroom on the second floor, where a nurse was watching the baby. Seeing them come in, the nurse quietly said, "The baby just fell asleep! Mr. Montague, Mrs. Montague, I'll be next door, call me if you need anything!"
Henry nodded and let the nurse leave.
In the quiet bedroom, a small crib held Taylor, sleeping sweetly.
Grace had been away since Taylor's birth, hardly seeing her.
Seeing Taylor now, sleeping peacefully, hit Grace hard. This was the child she carried for eight months, who suffered during birth.
Grace suppressed her emotions, gently touching Taylor's warm cheek, careful not to wake her.
How could Grace not want this? This was her daughter, the child she fought to bring into the world.
Henry was moved too. He hugged her from behind, his voice low and hoarse. "Grace, let me take care of you and the baby. We'll deal with our issues later, okay?"
Before Grace could respond, Taylor started crying. As a premature baby, her cries were delicate.
Henry gently patted Grace's shoulder. "She's hungry. Feed her first."
Taylor had been drinking formula these days.
Henry knew Grace didn't have breast milk, but he wanted them to bond, hoping she might soften and stay with him.
Henry picked up Taylor and gently placed her in Grace's arms.
To give her space, he went to the living room.
Sitting there, Henry thought about how she was his wife, yet now even looking at her felt like a violation. Their only connection seemed to be the child.
He used to scold her, saying she only knew how to beg him. Now he just wanted her to beg him. If she did, he would give her everything, even his life. But Grace wouldn't look at him or talk to him, her eyes filled with despair.
Had they reached the end? Henry didn't know how long he could keep Grace by his side, but he didn't want to give up now.
In the bedroom, Grace tried to breastfeed Taylor. Instinctively, she unhooked her bra and let Taylor latch on.
Taylor sucked greedily but got nothing, her little face turning red, and then she started crying loudly.
Henry came in from the living room to see this.
Taylor was wailing.
Grace, with her body exposed, was helplessly trying to soothe Taylor, her gaunt face full of confusion. She shouldn't be breastfeeding; she was already exhausted.
But Henry steeled himself, called the nurse, and asked for a lactation consultant to come. The nurse complied.
Henry walked back to Grace, gently took the baby, and tenderly fixed her clothes. "You rest for a bit. I'll make some formula for the baby."
He was so close, almost looking up at her.
At that moment, he wanted to grow old with her. He whispered, "Grace, let's raise Taylor together, okay?"
If she said yes, he would give her everything, even his life.
Grace slowly turned her head, silently staring at him, her powerful husband.
After a long time, she asked in a dazed voice, "Henry, do you think there's any hope for us?"