Chapter 416: Running Out of Time
"Father."
Wallace bowed to William first, then turned to Jasper, forcing a lightness into his voice. "Jasper, Ethan and Emma are playing in the garden. Would you like to join them? Emma was just asking for you."
Jasper glanced at William.
William waved his hand, his tone weary. "Go ahead, take a break. Spend some time with your siblings."
"Yes, Great-Grandfather. Grandfather." Jasper rose, bowed to both elders, and quietly exited the study. Throughout the entire exchange, he hadn't spared Wallace so much as a glance—that deliberate politeness and distance cutting deeper than any harsh word could.
The study door closed, leaving only Wallace and William.
The forced smile vanished from Wallace's face instantly, replaced by profound gravity and anguish. "Father, Jasper is still... like this."
William let out a long sigh. "That child carries too much on his shoulders, and he's far too clever. He remembers everything from back then far too clearly. Especially those media reports—they left their mark. He believes Charles destroyed Emily."
"But Charles had no choice! That damned virus—"
"The virus must never reach Jasper's ears!" William cut him off sharply. "Not now, at least. The boy is still young; he can't shoulder such a burden. And if he discovers that his father pushed Emily away only because he was infected—because he's dying—it would destroy him. The conflict would tear him apart."
Wallace closed his eyes in pain.
Yes, the virus.
No matter how many elite medical teams they consulted, the diagnosis remained unchanged: the virus would slowly ravage the body, incurable, granting four years at most.
Three years had already passed.
Charles had one year left.
The Windsor family had mobilized every resource, consulted renowned physicians and research institutions worldwide, even sought help from underground networks. Yet they'd found nothing—no cure, no treatment that could eliminate or even suppress the virus.
This was the true reason Charles had undergone that sudden personality transformation three years ago, why he'd insisted on divorcing Emily.
He hadn't wanted to burden her, hadn't wanted her to watch him deteriorate day by day. More than that, he'd feared that if their enemies discovered his condition, they would strike at the Windsor family—at Emily and the children. He had to push them away at the height of their emotional dependence, force them to hate him, distance themselves. That way, when he was truly gone, perhaps they would suffer less—and be safer.
He never imagined his protection would inadvertently push Emily into greater danger, or that it would permanently scar Jasper's heart.
Wallace shifted topics. "The Campbell family sent someone again. Still asking about Emily's whereabouts. Beau has aged terribly these three years—he's exhausted every connection, searching the entire world. He's nearly driven himself mad."
William rubbed his temples. "And Charles... has there been any news?"
Wallace lowered his voice. "Yes. Nathan told me privately—Charles actually located Emily some time ago."
William fell silent for a long moment. "If he found her, then why—"
"He doesn't dare go to her. Charles's condition... you know how it's deteriorated. The virus's effects grow more pronounced every day. He frequently runs fevers, suffers from exhaustion, sometimes loses consciousness briefly. The best doctors say he has a year at most. He's terrified—terrified Emily will see what he's become, terrified she'll learn the truth and suffer even more. And he's afraid his presence will shatter whatever semblance of peace she's managed to build in her new life. He'd rather she hate him and live well abroad."
"So he intends to... keep this secret from everyone, endure it alone, until—" William couldn't finish, tears welling in his aged eyes.
Wallace wiped his face. "He's arranging his affairs. These past three years, he's barely appeared in public, delegated all business operations to us. Meanwhile, he's been focused on two things: continuing to dismantle the Rivera family, clearing obstacles for Emily and the children; and grooming Jasper, paving the way for after he's gone. He wants to settle everything in this final year."
"Jasper..." William recalled the boy's stubborn, resentful gaze, his heart twisting painfully. "If he ever learns his father's true suffering, the illness... how will he bear it?"
Wallace had no answer.
Outside the window, Ethan and Emma's cheerful laughter drifted in, accompanied by Jasper's gentle voice soothing Emma. That warm scene only made the weight in the room feel heavier.
In the garden.
Emma clutched a doll, tear tracks still visible on her small face, her voice breaking. "Jasper, the dress is torn... Mommy used to fix it for me..."
Jasper knelt down, accepting the doll and examining the torn hem carefully. His voice softened—a rare tenderness. "Don't cry, Emma. I'll fix it for you. I may not sew as well as Mom, but I'll do my very best."
Ethan sidled closer, patting her back with grown-up solemnity. "Emma, be good. Don't cry. Mommy said crying makes little girls less pretty. When Mommy comes home and sees you've become a beautiful princess, she'll be so happy."
"Will Mommy... really come back?" Emma lifted her face, big eyes brimming with hope and anxiety. "Daddy said Mommy went far away for work... but why hasn't she come home to see us? Does she... not want us anymore?" Her eyes reddened again.
Jasper's heart clenched. He set down the doll and pulled Emma into a gentle embrace, his voice steady. "Never. Mommy loves us more than anything. She would never abandon us. She must have... something very important to do, something that keeps her away for now. We need to be good, grow up strong, and wait for Mommy to come home."
Even as he spoke, his gaze drifted involuntarily toward the second floor of the main building—toward that study with its perpetually drawn heavy curtains.
That's where his father stayed—the man who supposedly had important matters to attend to, yet rarely even showed his face.
Resentment coiled around Jasper's heart like thorny vines.
But just yesterday, he'd overheard Nathan and his grandfather speaking in hushed tones at the end of the corridor. Though he'd caught only fragments—"virus," "one year left"—it was enough to piece together a terrible truth.
Father was... sick? Seriously ill? Only one year remaining?
In that moment, what flooded through him wasn't satisfaction, but an overwhelming surge of heartache and panic.
The father who had once towered in his mind like an immovable mountain, seemingly invincible—he too could fall. He too would... leave?
Complex emotions churned in his chest. The resentment hadn't dissipated, yet pity and concern had begun creeping in uninvited. He didn't know how to face this man—the father who inspired both his bitterness and, now, his reluctant worry.