Chapter 206 She Is Only Asleep
William hadn't left this room for three days.
He'd set the air conditioning to its lowest—not sixty-one degrees Fahrenheit, but minus four.
Industrial-grade refrigeration equipment, delivered overnight, ran around the clock. Thick frost formed at the vents, and the cold air sliced like invisible blades against the skin.
The water pipes in the corner had burst from freezing. Ice crystals covered the inside of the windows, blocking out the last bit of light.
The entire room was like an ice coffin.
William knelt beside Isabella in a thin shirt.
His lips were purple from the cold, his fingers so stiff they seemed ready to snap, each breath condensing into white mist in the air. But he hadn't put on a single extra layer, hadn't moved an inch away.
She was cold, so he stayed cold with her.
Isabella lay on the recliner, still wearing that white dress.
Three days now.
The livor mortis had shifted from purple-blue to a dark brown, web-like pattern, spreading across her back and limbs.
Her skin had begun to loosen and collapse. Her jaw hung slightly open, revealing a bit of her teeth—a natural response as muscles lost their tension.
William reached out and gently lifted her chin, closing it.
"Is the AC cold enough?" he asked softly, his voice trembling from the cold. "You don't like heat, I know. It's not hot now."
He took her hand.
Stiff, ice-cold, hard as stone.
He held that hand in his palm, trying to warm it.
He rubbed for ten minutes, twenty minutes, but nothing changed.
He wouldn't stop.
"You used to say you wanted to move out."
He suddenly spoke.
His voice condensed into white mist in the minus four air, dissipating slowly.
"Isabella, do you know how panicked I was back then?"
He pressed Isabella's cold hand against his own face. His frozen skin had lost most feeling, but he pressed it deep into his bones.
"How could I live in a world without you?"
His voice began to shake.
"How could I possibly let you leave?"
Only the cold air flowed silently through the room.
She lay quietly on the recliner, livor mortis spreading to her neck, her skin taking on an unnatural dark color.
He looked at that face.
That face that was rotting.
"Now you'll never leave me again."
He suddenly smiled.
That smile froze on his stiff face, but his eyes were red.
"Isabella."
He gripped her hand tighter.
"I never told you—"
He stopped.
His Adam's apple bobbed several times.
"I never disliked you at all."
The words were out.
He knelt there, holding that hand that would never hold back, motionless.
The cold air kept roaring.
Frost had formed on his eyebrows, and fine ice crystals hung from his lashes. His lips were cracked and bleeding, the blood hardening into dark red scabs.
He felt no pain.
He felt nothing at all.
Only the hand in his palm, growing colder and colder, freezing through to his bones.
Footsteps sounded outside the door.
William didn't move.
The knock was soft, three times.
"Mr. Spencer." It was Dylan's voice.
William still didn't respond.
After a few seconds of silence outside, the door was gently pushed open a crack.
Dylan stood in the doorway.
He wore a new suit, every button fastened, with a tie.
He'd recovered his professional composure.
His breath condensed into white mist.
But when he saw the scene inside the room, his breathing stopped.
The minus four freezer, the roaring cold air, the frost-covered windows.
William kneeling before the recliner in that thin shirt, his whole body gaunt, all sharp angles and bones.
Lips purple from cold, hands covered in frozen cracks, eyebrows and lashes covered in frost.
And on the recliner—
Dylan's gaze fell on Isabella, then quickly looked away.
He didn't want to look.
Didn't dare to look.
The livor mortis, the collapsed skin, the mouth that could no longer close.
That was Isabella.
That person who had once been the kindest, most beautiful angel.
Dylan stood in the doorway, fists clenched tight.
Knuckles white.
"Mr. Spencer." He spoke, his voice catching. "You should go check on the company."
William didn't turn around.
"Get out."
Dylan didn't move.
He stepped into the room.
The cold air instantly pierced through his skin, like countless needles piercing his bones.
But he didn't retreat.
"Mr. Spencer."
His voice was shaking—whether from cold or something else, he didn't know. "You can't do this."
William still didn't turn around.
"I told you to get out."
Dylan took another step forward.
He saw William's back—that shirt was soaked through with sweat and cold air, covered in a thin layer of ice.
The shirt had frozen to his skin.
He saw William holding Isabella's hand, fingers black from frostbite, still bleeding.
"She's already dead."
Dylan's voice suddenly burst out.
William's back stiffened for a moment.
"Three days now," Dylan said seriously. "She's been dead for three days. Mr. Spencer, look at her—look at what she looks like now. She's not coming back."
"Shut up."
William's voice was so low it seemed to come from underground.
Dylan didn't shut up.
"Isabella is dead." He walked forward, to William's side, pointing at the rotting corpse on the recliner. "Look clearly, this is a corpse. She's dead. She won't speak, won't move, won't tell you if she's cold or hungry..."
"I told you to shut up!"
William suddenly stood up and grabbed Dylan's collar.
His eyes were so red they seemed ready to bleed, his whole face all sharp angles and bones, but those eyes were terrifyingly bright, bright as a red-hot blade, like a crazed beast.
"She's not dead."
He forced these words through his cracked lips.
Dylan looked at him.
Looked at this man, he'd followed his whole life.
This William, who was decisive and ruthless in business, who never bowed his head, now standing in a minus four freezer, gripping his collar, telling him with completely insane eyes that she wasn't dead.
Dylan suddenly felt like someone had punched him hard in the chest.
It hurt.
Hurt so much he couldn't breathe.
"Mr. Spencer." He spoke, his voice suddenly hoarse. "Her hand, you're holding her hand. Tell me, is her hand warm?"
William didn't answer.
"Look at her, tell me, is she breathing?"
William's eyes moved slightly.
"You call her, you've called her a hundred times, a thousand times. Has she answered you?"
William's hand began to tremble.
The hand gripping Dylan's collar shook harder and harder.
Dylan looked at him, his eyes suddenly reddening.
"Mr. Spencer!" His voice was very low, almost inaudible. "She's already dead. You can't keep her."
William stared at him.
Stared for a long time.
Then he slowly released his grip and stepped back.
He retreated to the recliner, knelt down again, and took that hand again.
"She's not dead."
He said.
His voice was calm, as if stating a fact.
"She's right here."
He pressed that cold hand against his face again.
"She's just sleeping. When she wakes up, she'll talk to me."
Dylan stood there, looking at the man kneeling in the freezer.
Minus four, pipes burst, windows frozen over, a rotting corpse.
That man knelt there, pressing against a hand that would never hold back, saying she was just sleeping.
Dylan closed his eyes.
He remembered three years ago, when he first met Isabella.
Isabella's eyes were as clear as a mountain spring.
William wouldn't even spare her a glance back then.
Now he knelt in a minus four freezer, guarding her corpse, refusing to admit she was dead.
Dylan opened his eyes.
He pulled out a voice recorder from his coat pocket.
"Mr. Spencer."
William didn't turn around.
"I came to find you because there's something."
He held out the recorder.