Chapter 168
Mom put down her utensils, her face calm, even giving me a smile, "I've talked it over with Flora. The tourism route really isn't working out right now."
"Tom is clearly trying to crush us completely. Rather than fighting back and burning through our last bit of capital, it's better to let go first—sometimes you have to risk everything to survive."
She said it casually, but the bitterness and helplessness she couldn't hide in her tone washed over me like a tide, almost drowning me.
I knew my mother too well.
She seemed easygoing on the outside, but deep down she was more stubborn than anyone.
Unless she was truly desperate, she would never easily talk about selling the company.
I lowered my head, looking at the now-cold food in the lunch box in front of me, a mess, just like my mood at this moment.
Why did Tom have to be so cruel?
It wasn't just about stealing business.
I remembered Mom vaguely mentioning once that Tom had made inappropriate comments and advances toward her under the pretense of discussing business deals, and Mom had firmly rejected and scolded him.
Later, when Mom's company started doing a bit better, he tried to get involved as an investor, and Mom politely turned him down too.
On top of that, my father—that gambling addict I'd cut ties with long ago—apparently owed Tom a huge gambling debt.
Tom didn't get his money back, didn't get the woman he wanted, and with old grudges piling on top of new ones, how could he not hold a grudge? How could he not seek revenge?
That's why he was so aggressive, using every dirty trick in the book, determined to drive Mom's company into the ground, practically wishing he could destroy her completely.
And all of this might have had some room for negotiation.
If only George, the man who was still legally my husband, had shown even a slightly different attitude, or even without personally helping, if he just stopped letting Tom act in his name, if he just sent out the tiniest signal of disapproval, those investors might not have pulled out so decisively, and Tom might not have dared to be so reckless.
But George wouldn't.
He gave all his resources, all his favoritism, to Sarah, and to the people and things Sarah cared about.
For Sarah, he could ignore my pain, could allow others to hurt my family, could personally push us toward an even harder situation.
Thinking about this, what rose up inside me wasn't just anger anymore, but also an absurd urge to laugh.
George, for your Sarah, you really spare no effort, stop at nothing—even basic principles and conscience can be thrown away?
My throat felt like it was stuffed with vinegar-soaked cotton, sour and bitter, making it almost impossible to breathe.
I suddenly put down my utensils, the metal clanging against the lunch box with a sharp sound.
I looked up at Mom's worried face, trying hard to pull my mouth into a comforting smile, but my facial muscles felt stiff and foreign.
"Mom, you eat first. I... I'm going to throw out the trash." My voice was dry and hoarse.
After saying that, I practically fled, grabbing the barely touched lunch box and plastic bag from the table, turning and quickly walking out of the hospital room.
I needed air.
In this space filled with the smell of disinfectant and invisible pressure, staying even one more second, I was afraid I'd lose control of the churning emotions inside me.
The hallway was busy with people coming and going. I kept my head down, walking quickly toward the trash can at the end.
I shoved the barely touched lunch box along with the plastic bag hard into the trash can at the end of the hallway.
The plastic bin made a dull thud.
That sound was like a final punctuation mark.
I stood by the trash can, my chest rising and falling slightly from suppressed anger and bitterness.
The smell of disinfectant in the hallway was sharp, mixed with various food and medicine odors, making me a bit nauseous.
But I was incredibly clear-headed right now.
I needed an answer, needed closure.
Not to salvage anything, but to completely cut off those invisible vines that were still trying to wrap around and hurt my family.
And the source of all this was on the top floor of this building, in that luxurious VIP room.
I turned around, didn't go back to Mom's room, but walked straight toward the elevator.
The elevator doors opened, and there was already someone inside.
It was Steven, George's assistant. He mainly handled daily schedules and some more personal matters.
When he saw me, a flash of surprise crossed his face, but he quickly recovered his professional composure, nodding slightly at me as a greeting.
"Mrs. Smith." His voice wasn't loud, carrying its usual respect, but also a hint of distance.
I walked in, didn't respond, didn't look at him, just silently pressed the button for the top floor, then turned around with my back to him.
The elevator doors slowly closed, leaving just the two of us in the small space, the air somewhat stagnant.
Steven was a smart man. Seeing that I only pressed the top floor without stopping at the floor where Mom was hospitalized, and seeing my unusual silence and cold attitude, he immediately understood where I was going and what I intended to do.
The elevator slowly ascended, the numbers jumping one by one.
Steven behind me hesitated for a moment, then finally spoke, his voice still respectful but carrying a barely noticeable reminder, "Mrs. Smith, you finally have time to visit Mr. Smith."
I didn't respond, didn't even move my shoulders.
My silence perhaps made Steven feel some pressure, or maybe he just wanted to fulfill his duty to give a heads-up.
The elevator reached the top floor with a soft sound, the doors sliding open on both sides.
Steven didn't immediately step out, but turned to face me, lowering his voice and speaking a bit faster, "Mrs. Smith, Ms. Wilson is also there."
He paused, looking at my still-cold profile, and added, "Mr. Smith probably doesn't want you to disturb him. You could come back later, when Ms. Wilson goes to the office. What do you think?"
This was already a very direct hint.
In his understanding, or in the instructions he'd received, my appearance right now was inappropriate, would displease George.
And Sarah's presence was reasonable and needed.
I finally turned around and looked at him directly.
Steven probably thought that, like before, hearing such words, I would show embarrassment, awkwardness or disappointment, then silently back down and tactfully leave.
But I didn't.
I looked at him, the corners of my mouth curling into a cold, clear arc, that smile without warmth, only scrutiny and a hint of mockery, "Steven, in your eyes, who exactly is Mrs. Smith?"
Steven clearly hadn't expected me to suddenly ask such a question, his pupils contracting slightly.
I didn't give him a chance to answer, continuing, "Right now, I haven't divorced George yet. Legally, I'm still his lawful wife."
"You should recognize your own position, and recognize who the person here with real legitimacy is."
My gaze pierced his face, "And Sarah, what exactly is her status—you know better than I do."
"She's the one who has the least right to be here disturbing my conversation with George."
I said all this very calmly, didn't even raise my voice, but the weight and unquestionable meaning in it made Steven's expression change instantly.
He looked at me, his eyes filled with disbelief and shock.
In his impression, even in the perception of everyone at the Smith Group who knew the situation.
I, Grace, was always that docile, patient, even somewhat weak Mrs. Smith who only revolved around George, without any opinions of her own.
I had never spoken to him in such a direct, firm, even superior-like questioning tone.
The professional calm on Steven's face finally cracked. He opened his mouth, seeming to want to explain something, but under my cold gaze, in the end, he still lowered his head, "I'm sorry, Mrs. Smith."
Seeing him bow his head in apology, I didn't say another word, just turned and walked out of the elevator.