Chapter 169
I know that Steven is just George's subordinate who reads his boss's mood and acts accordingly.
Whoever George cares about, whoever he favors, Steven will naturally and subconsciously protect and filter for them.
Sarah clearly has more support and attention than me right now.
But that doesn't mean her position is legitimate, and it certainly doesn't mean I need to back down in front of her.
The hallway of the top-floor VIP ward was carpeted with thick rugs, silent and still, a stark contrast to the noisy regular wards downstairs.
I walked to George's hospital room door.
The door was slightly ajar, and I could hear faint voices inside—Sarah's soft, gentle tone.
I didn't knock, didn't hesitate. I just reached out and pushed the door open.
The scene inside the room came into view.
George was half-reclined on the raised hospital bed. His complexion was indeed paler than when I'd last seen him at the archery range, showing the weariness of illness, but his eyes remained deep and cold.
Sarah sat by the bed, holding a warm towel in her hand. She was leaning forward, gently wiping George's chest beneath the loosened collar of his hospital gown with careful, tender movements.
Her face was turned toward the door in profile, her expression focused and gentle, with an almost intimate naturalness.
And George didn't refuse—he just lowered his eyelashes slightly, lost in thought.
If I hadn't suddenly pushed the door open, if I hadn't interrupted this quiet moment, what would have happened next?
Maybe that towel would have continued downward?
Maybe there would have been even more intimate gestures?
I didn't know, and I didn't want to know.
My sudden appearance was like a stone thrown into a calm lake.
Sarah's movements froze abruptly. She turned her head toward me in surprise.
When she saw it was me, a flash of annoyance at being interrupted crossed her eyes, but she quickly adjusted, recovering that proper smile tinged with faint distance.
"Ms. Brown?" She put down the towel and straightened up, her tone carrying just the right amount of surprise, "What are you doing here?"
The way she asked that question was really interesting.
As if my arrival was somehow inappropriate, somehow unexpectedly out of place.
I didn't respond to Sarah, didn't even spare her a glance.
My gaze went past her, landing directly on George's face as he lay in the hospital bed.
He was looking at me too.
There was no particular emotion in his eyes, just an unfathomable blankness and a hint of impatience at being interrupted.
"Can we talk?" I got straight to the point, my voice calm, without any inflection.
George really didn't look well. It seemed this flu had caused more serious problems than I'd imagined—otherwise, given his personality, he would never stay in the hospital this long.
He didn't answer me right away. Instead, he looked away and began slowly buttoning up the hospital gown that Sarah had unbuttoned while wiping him down.
Then he picked up his phone from the bedside table, apparently preparing to handle some business.
As if my presence, my request, wasn't as important as an unread message on his phone.
Only after I kept looking at him calmly did he respond coldly, "Talk about what?"
That short sentence was full of dismissiveness and impatience.
The anger in my heart, which I'd been forcibly suppressing, was completely ignited by his casual, indifferent attitude.
Did he think I'd interrupted something good between him and Sarah?
Did he think my presence was unnecessary and annoying?
I turned directly to Sarah, who was still standing by the bed, my voice clear and firm, "Please leave. I want to talk to my husband alone."
I emphasized the words "my husband" particularly clearly.
The smile on Sarah's face froze. She clearly hadn't expected me to ask her to leave so directly.
She instinctively looked at George, her eyes showing a hint of grievance and appeal for help, her lips moving slightly as if wanting to say something.
George finally put down his phone and looked up.
He first glanced at Sarah, his look seeming to offer some reassurance.
Then he turned his gaze to me, his tone still flat and calm, "She can stay. We can talk with her here."
Those words were like a key, instantly opening the door to mockery in my heart.
I wanted to laugh out loud.
George, do you wish you could keep Sarah like an accessory, tied to your side every moment, never leaving? Or do you think having her here will better provoke me?
I looked at his cold face, then at Sarah's expression that faintly carried a victor's attitude.
Instead, I felt a strange calm. I remembered that last time Violet called me, she'd said, "Grace, George's cold this time might actually be because of you. I heard that day at the archery range, when he saw that arrow almost hit you, he was so worried his back was covered in sweat. He caught a chill when he got back and developed a high fever..."
At the time, I'd found it absurd and laughable.
I'd wanted to tell Violet directly, "Grandma, you've misunderstood. He wasn't worried about me—he was worried about Sarah."
His rushing over to grab me might have just been an instinctive reaction, or simply because he was afraid my injury would cause trouble.
All his anxiety and sweat had found their clearest answer the moment he carefully picked up the injured Sarah.
But then, I was afraid those words were too blunt and cruel, that they would hurt Violet's feelings, that they might make her sick with anger, so the words reached my lips and I swallowed them back.
Now it seemed some words should have been said long ago.
At least, to make those who should understand actually understand, to make those who should bear pressure bear what they deserve.
Since George thought Sarah could stay, I didn't mind either. I'd lay some things out in the open.
Meeting George's gaze—indifferent yet impatient—I spoke directly, without any beating around the bush, "Fine, since Ms. Wilson wants to listen, let's all hear it together."
"George, can you explain to me," my voice was clear and steady, betraying no anger, only a cold interrogation, "why Tom's travel company stole the investor my mother had already secured? Using such underhanded tactics that my mother was so upset she got into a car accident?"
My gaze locked onto him, "Was this done with your permission, or even your encouragement?"
"Grace!" Sarah immediately spoke up, her voice clearly tense and urgent.
She quickly looked at George, explaining rapidly, "George, this matter... I didn't know about this! Tom was just trying to expand his business, his methods might have been a bit aggressive. I'll go ask him about it right away, don't listen to her wild accusations!"
She was eager to distance herself, her face showing the grievance and anxiety of being wrongly accused.
George glanced at Sarah, his look reassuring, then turned his gaze back to me.
His expression showed no change, still his usual coldness and calm.
"I won't get involved in this." He spoke, his voice without any warmth, "It's just normal business competition. If you have a problem, you can go ask Tom directly."
He even frowned slightly, his tone taking on an almost lecturing quality, "The investment I was supposed to give your company—I haven't reduced it by a penny, have I?"
Those words were like a fuse, instantly igniting the anger I'd been suppressing for so long.
He hadn't understood at all, or rather, he couldn't be bothered to understand why I was questioning him this way.
In his eyes, this seemed like nothing more than me being unreasonable, making a fuss, maybe even jealous that Sarah could be here taking care of him, so I was deliberately picking a fight.
"Normal competition?" I almost laughed coldly, "George, you did invest, that's true, but how that investment came about—you know better than I do!"
That investment was something I'd traded my labor for. He'd made me take care of Sarah's child Jack while he went on dates with Sarah.
That investment came from swallowing my pride.
"Right now, I just want a clear answer. Is that so difficult?" I stared at him, word by word, "George, if you can't stand me, you can come at me directly. Why use such underhanded methods to hurt my mother?"
My voice couldn't help but tremble slightly—not from weakness, but from anger and heartache, "My mother has already suffered so much, and last time Tom already..."
"Ms. Brown!" Sarah suddenly raised her voice sharply, cutting off my words.
The pretense of grievance on her face was instantly replaced by frantic tension.