Chapter 133
After finishing dinner, I asked the butler to take Jack for a bath.
The butler acknowledged and came over to call Jack.
I took Milly's hand, planning to take her to the guest room I used to stay in for washing up.
I naturally wouldn't go to the master bedroom anymore—it was probably already filled with Sarah's scent.
We had only taken a few steps when Jack's somewhat awkward voice came from behind, "Wait!"
I didn't stop.
"Mom." He called again, his voice lower, carrying a hint of uncertainty and awkwardness.
Only then did I stop and turn to look at him.
Jack stood beside the butler, his little face slightly flushed, eyes darting around. He seemed to want to say something, but in the end, it was covered by arrogance and aggression.
He raised his chin at Milly and huffed, "Milly, you're so shameless, still needing mom to help you bathe at your age."
"Only little babies need adults to help them. I've been bathing myself for a long time. I'm not jealous at all."
After saying this, he walked away with the butler like a victorious little rooster, head held high.
I watched his retreating figure, feeling nothing in my heart.
Neither Milly nor I paid any attention to Jack, and went straight back to the guest room where I was temporarily staying.
I helped Milly wash up and changed her into the clean pajamas I'd brought. After a long day, she was already getting sleepy, her eyelids beginning to droop.
I lay down with her, gently patting her back and humming a soft lullaby.
Milly soon fell into a deep sleep in my arms, breathing evenly and steadily.
Looking at her peaceful sleeping face, I felt calm inside.
I carefully pulled my arm out, tucked the blanket around her, and was just about to go wash up myself when there was a soft knock on the door.
The sound was very light, somewhat tentative.
I frowned and went to open the door.
Standing outside was Jack. He had already changed into pajamas, his hair still wet, probably not dried after his bath. He was clutching his pillow tightly, his little face looking somewhat pale in the dim hallway light, eyes evasive, not daring to look directly at me.
"I... I don't want to sleep alone." His voice was very small, "I can't fall asleep. You need to tell me a bedtime story."
As he spoke, he tried to squeeze into the room.
I blocked the doorway, showing no intention of letting him in.
I pointed to Milly already asleep on the bed and lowered my voice, "I need to take care of Milly while she sleeps. If you want to hear a story, you can listen here, but after I finish, you have to go back to your own room to sleep."
Upon hearing this, Jack's little mouth immediately turned down, his eyes quickly filling with tears, looking like he was about to throw a tantrum and cry.
I looked at him coldly, saying nothing, making no comforting gestures. Just that look of calm and firmness in my eyes, like a bucket of cold water, extinguished his budding tantrum.
He probably remembered my cold attitude at dinner, the merciless rejection, and the memory of holding his own cheek. His arrogant air deflated like a punctured balloon.
He stood at the door, holding his pillow, head down, toes scuffing the carpet, and finally, reluctantly and very quietly, agreed, accepting the compromise.
I stepped aside to let him in, pointing to a small sofa chair far from Milly's bed, "Sit there, keep quiet, don't wake Milly."
Jack shuffled over with his pillow and sat down, body tense, but his eyes couldn't help glancing toward Milly sleeping on the bed, his gaze showing curiosity and a trace of envy he himself hadn't even noticed.
I randomly picked a children's storybook from the shelf, sat in another chair not far from him, opened the book, and began reading in a calm and gentle voice. It was about a little prince traveling through space, full of fantasy and warmth.
Jack started out listening attentively, sitting up straight, but gradually, exhausted from the day's events and lulled by the soothing rhythm of the story, his eyelids began to droop, his little head nodding.
I deliberately slowed my pace, making my voice even softer.
In just over ten minutes, before the story was even half finished, Jack couldn't hold on anymore. His head tilted, leaning against the chair back, and he let out soft, even snores—he was asleep. He still clutched his pillow tightly, as if holding some treasure.
Looking at his sleeping face, stripped of the day's bullying and meanness, his little face that resembled George by about fifty or sixty percent showed the innocence and vulnerability that belonged to a child in sleep.
But I knew this was just an illusion.
Once awake, that Jack who had been spoiled by Sarah, selfish and domineering, would return.
I felt no softness in my heart. I got up, walked to the door, and called the butler who was waiting in the hallway.
"Jack has fallen asleep. Please carry him back to his own room." I instructed in a flat tone.
The butler glanced at me, then at Jack sleeping on the sofa. Something seemed to flash in his eyes, but he quickly composed himself and respectfully replied, "Yes, Mrs. Smith."
He walked over and, with movements not particularly gentle but steady enough, picked Jack up.
Jack mumbled something in his sleep, curled into the butler's arms, but didn't wake.
Watching the butler disappear down the hallway with Jack, I closed the door and returned to the room.
Milly was sleeping soundly.
I quietly went to the bathroom to wash up quickly, changed into pajamas, and prepared to rest.
But before lying down, I remembered what George had said on the phone during the day.
The dress had been delivered and placed in his dressing room.
Although I could get it tomorrow, I didn't want any complications. I didn't want to run into George or Sarah again tomorrow.
I looked at Milly sleeping soundly, confirmed she wouldn't wake up anytime soon, got up and wrapped myself in a coat, gently opened the door, and went out.
George's bedroom and the connected dressing room were on the other side of the master bedroom.
Only a few dim night lights were left on in the hallway, silent and quiet.
I walked over from memory. The master bedroom door was closed, seeming quiet inside.
I directly pushed open the dressing room door and turned on the light.
The huge dressing room was brightly lit, with floor-to-ceiling closets and display shelves on both sides, a wall of shoe cabinets, and a spacious island counter and seating area in the middle.
The air was filled with a faint cool woody scent that belonged to George, and a trace of sweet, cloying perfume that belonged to Sarah.
My gaze swept across.
Sure enough.
George's suits, shirts, ties, watches, and accessories were categorized and neatly organized.
And on the other side, in what used to be an empty area, now hung all kinds of women's clothing.
Dresses, suits, evening gowns, in bright colors and fashionable styles.
The drawers beside them were half-open, revealing neatly folded women's underwear and stockings inside.
On the vanity table were expensive skincare products and cosmetics, along with several bottles of perfume, one of which was the strong-scented one Sarah habitually used.
I gave a cold smile.
Just ordinary friends?
Would ordinary friends keep their change of clothes, underwear, and complete makeup sets in a married man's dressing room?
This blatant takeover, this obvious intimacy—did it need any more explanation?
But I didn't care anymore.
These scenes, apart from making me feel disgusted and confirming my foolishness, meant nothing else.
I didn't linger on those glaring garments, but walked straight to the island counter.
On it sat a deep purple velvet gift box, tied with a satin ribbon in the same color.
I walked over and opened the box.
Inside lay the dress, quiet and still.
The smooth satin flowed with a warm, understated luster under the light, the exquisite embroidered patterns lifelike, with fine and even stitches.
I gently touched it, as if I could feel the effort and warmth my grandfather had poured into it when he bent over his drawings and embroidered under lamplight years ago.
My nose tingled.
I thought, 'Grandfather, I've finally gotten your work back.'
I carefully took the dress from the box, examined it thoroughly, confirmed it was intact, then folded it again, preparing to take it away.
Just as I closed the gift box lid and was about to leave, my gaze inadvertently swept across a desk on one side of the dressing room.
That was where George occasionally handled urgent business at home.
A document lay open on the desk, with his personal laptop beside it, the screen lit and in sleep mode, but I could vaguely see an open webpage interface.
My footsteps stopped.