Chapter 150: Regretting Having Frederick

For the next month, Daniel made daily visits to monitor George's health, adjust his medications, and chart his progress. George, being young and resilient, recovered quickly.

However, throughout this period, he and Isabella remained apart.

"Elodie, do you think I should just file for divorce?" Isabella asked, her voice laced with confusion.

Elodie, engrossed in her writing, paused. "Divorce? What are you talking about?"

Isabella nodded miserably. "I feel like George doesn't love me anymore."

"What makes you say that?"

"We've been separated for over a month. Only Daniel, Patricia, and John are allowed in his room. Sometimes, days go by without me even seeing him."

Elodie recognized the strangeness of the situation. "But you said he was sick, right? He needs rest to recover. Don't jump to conclusions."

"Resting isn't being comatose. Even when George was in a vegetative state, we slept in the same bed every night. This is different." Isabella propped her chin on her hand, her gaze unfocused. It seemed even having a child couldn't bridge the growing distance between them.

Elodie closed her laptop, sensing her friend's distress. "Isabella, stop it. You're spiraling. If he didn't love you, would he have risked his life to save you? Besides, you have Frederick now. Divorce is off the table."

"Lots of divorced couples have kids," Isabella countered with a sigh. "And I feel like… like the love is gone."

"Do you not love him anymore?"

Isabella struggled to articulate her feelings. "Elodie, you know me. I've never been one for grand passions. The only time I really felt something was when I gave birth to Frederick."

"Do you regret having Frederick?"

Isabella looked up at Elodie, a faint smile touching her lips. "Of course not. He's my child as much as George's. I love him more than anything."

"But if you didn't love his father, why would you have his child? I think you love George more than you realize."

Maybe Elodie was right. Perhaps Isabella hadn't acknowledged the depth of her feelings for George. Otherwise, she wouldn't be so consumed by anxiety and uncertainty, so panicked by the slightest hint of trouble.

The truth was, she wasn't seeking a divorce. She was terrified that George wanted one.

Back at Spencer Manor, Isabella remained lost in thought. Thalia was gleefully spraying Patricia's flowers with a water pistol. "Hold it right there, Isabella."

Isabella looked up, bewildered, her brow furrowed as she saw Thalia.

Thalia tossed the water gun aside and sauntered over. "Do you know why George is giving you the cold shoulder?"

Isabella shook her head, doubting Thalia had any real insight.

"Judging by that clueless look, I guess not." Thalia reached into her purse, pulled out a stack of photos, and flung them at Isabella. "Your dirty little secret is out. Get ready to be kicked to the curb."

The photos scattered across the ground. Isabella bent to retrieve them, her stomach churning as she saw the explicit images of a naked woman with a man. The woman's face had been altered to look like hers, the man's like Adrian's.

"So, you gonna confess now? You and Adrian are disgusting. Doing that filth and then taking pictures?"

Isabella was stunned. She had no idea where these images had come from, who had created them.

"That's not me," she insisted, her voice trembling.

"Oh, please. The evidence is staring you in the face. Just own it." Thalia snatched up a photo. "Wow, I didn't know you had such a rocking body."

"Where did you get these?" Isabella's hand shook as she clutched the photos.

"Not your concern. If you don't want people to see this kind of thing, don't do it."

"I didn't!" Isabella gathered the photos and hurried upstairs. Had George seen them? Was this the reason for his coldness? She had to explain.

John intercepted her as she made a beeline for George's room. "Isabella, George is resting."

"Sleeping day and night? Is that rest?" Isabella's voice rose. "George! I need to talk to you!"

"He's recuperating. He needs quiet. Don't yell." John frowned, his disapproval evident.

"I know he's recuperating! He can spare a few minutes, can't he? George, can you hear me?" Even if he was recovering, he couldn't just shut her out.

"Isabella, one more outburst and I'll have you removed."

As the two faced off, a voice came from inside the room. "Let her in, John."

Relief washed over Isabella. She pushed past John and opened the door. The room reeked of antiseptic and was filled with medical equipment, more like a hospital room than a bedroom. Isabella was taken aback. She'd thought he was simply napping. This was clearly more serious. The question of why he wasn't in a hospital formed on her lips, but she swallowed it down.

"What is it, Isabella?" George asked.

Isabella pressed her lips together, holding out the photos. "Have you seen these?"

George glanced at them, then back at Isabella. "Yes."

"That's not me," she rushed to explain.

"I know."

Isabella stared at him, dumbfounded. "You know?"

"I think I know what my wife's body looks like."

"So you believe me? That I didn't… that I didn't have anything to do with Adrian?"

George nodded. "I believe you."

His easy acceptance, his complete trust, felt strange. Isabella just managed a quiet "Okay," and turned to leave. After a few steps, she hesitated, looking back at him. "Don't you have anything to say to me?"

George saw the mixture of hope and uncertainty in her eyes. "Yes. A lot. We'll talk. When I'm better."

"Okay," Isabella whispered. "Take care of yourself. I won't bother you anymore."