Chapter 211

Chapter 211

She lay on her side in the companion bed, facing the hospital bed.

Moonlight seeped through the gaps in the curtains, tracing the elegant contours of the man's face.

His eyes were closed, his breathing steady. She couldn't tell if he was asleep or lost in thought.

The next morning, Molly went home to fetch a change of clothes.

When she pushed open the door, she found a man standing outside.

Dwayne.

He'd lost a lot of weight.

He wore a wrinkled coat with frayed cuffs, and scuffed dress shoes that had lost their shine. The leather was dull and gray.

He stood on the lower step, making no move to knock—looking every bit like a vagrant.

Molly stood inside, peering at him through the half-open door.

"Molly." Dwayne's voice had none of its former authority. Instead, it wavered with hesitation and embarrassment.

"I'm in a bit of trouble. I owe some money. I just need eight hundred thousand dollars."

He looked up at her, his eyes pleading, tinged with humiliation. "Just lend me eight hundred thousand. I'll pay you back as soon as I can turn things around. Please?"

Molly listened, her expression cold—as if the man before her were a complete stranger.

"I don't have any money," she said flatly.

Dwayne's face shifted.

"What do you mean you don't have money? Didn't you and Edward get back together?"

"Edward's in the hospital," she cut him off. "His money is his. My money is mine. And you don't deserve a cent of it."

Dwayne's breathing grew heavy.

He stared at her, his eyes reddening—not with remorse, but with the indignation of a desperate man rejected by his own flesh and blood.

"I'm your father."

"No, you're not."

"When my mother was dying, where were you? When she took her last breath, where were you? The day she was buried, you were in Celeste's bed. You never treated me like your daughter. And now you want to call yourself my father? Who gave you the nerve?"

Dwayne stood frozen. His lips moved, as if to argue, but Molly didn't give him the chance.

She took a step back and gripped the door handle.

"You're in debt? Deal with it yourself. Sell your blood. Sell your house. Beg Celeste for all I care." Her voice was as calm as a still pond. "Just don't come back here again."

The door closed in his face.

Dwayne stood there, muttering a curse under his breath—though what exactly, she didn't care to know. Eventually, he shuffled away.

Molly thought that would be the end of it.

She'd underestimated him.

Three days later, a post went viral.

It featured a photo of Dwayne sitting in a stairwell, looking haggard, a worn woven bag beside him.

The comment section shifted from scattered skepticism to a unanimous condemnation.

"She married into money and abandoned her own father?"

"Rich people's morals, I guess."

"Poor old man. His daughter's living in a mansion while he sleeps in a stairwell."

Molly saw the post while sitting beside Edward's hospital bed, peeling an apple for him.

She set her phone down. The peel snapped between her fingers.

Edward glanced at her face.

"What happened?"

She hesitated, then handed him the phone.

Edward read through it line by line.

His expression didn't change much—only the sharp line of his jaw tightened.

"Do you need me to handle it?" He handed the phone back.

"No." Molly picked up the broken peel and tossed it into the trash. "I'll take care of it myself."

She lowered her eyes and resumed peeling the apple.

The blade moved smoothly along the flesh. The peel stayed intact this time.

"Don't cut the pieces too small. I won't get full."

Molly paused and looked up at him.

He was leaning against the headboard, his expression calm—as if he hadn't seen anything at all.

Her lashes trembled slightly.

"Got it."

She handed him the apple.

 

The next afternoon, Molly appeared at a press conference.

The room was sparsely populated—mostly local reporters and independent media. No one expected much from this event. They'd only shown up because of the Howard Group's name.

Molly wore a black blazer, her hair pulled back, revealing a clean, unadorned face.

She wasn't wearing makeup—only a faint touch of red on her lips.

She stood behind the podium. No script in sight.

"I'm Molly." Her voice cut through the murmurs, and the room fell silent.

"Yesterday, Mr. Dwayne Johnson told the media that I married into wealth and refused to support my father."

She paused.

"What he said is true."

Whispers rippled through the crowd.

Phone screens lit up. Cameras turned toward the stage.

She lifted her gaze and looked at the sea of unfamiliar faces.

"I'm not here to win sympathy. I'm not here to explain myself. I'm here to tell Mr. Johnson this: you don't owe me the debt of raising me, and I don't owe you the obligation of supporting you."

She pulled a sheet of paper from her pocket.

A declaration severing their father-daughter relationship. She held it up to the cameras and read it aloud, word by word.

Then she picked up a pen and signed her name.

"From today onward, Mr. Johnson and I have no relationship whatsoever."

She pushed the declaration forward, stood, and walked away.

Camera flashes exploded behind her.

She didn't look back.

 

Edward watched the live broadcast on the hospital room TV.

He didn't say a word. Just watched, silent.

Not long after, the sky darkened. Rain was coming.

By the time Molly returned to the hospital, raindrops were already falling.

She pushed open the door and saw Edward leaning against the headboard. The meal tray in front of him was nearly untouched.

"Why didn't you eat?" She walked over and touched the dishes. Cold.

Edward didn't answer.

He just looked at her. For a long time.

She'd changed out of the blazer into a soft gray sweater.

Her makeup was gone. Her lips were pale and a little dry.

He reached out and took hold of her wrist.

She paused but didn't pull away.

He drew her closer—close enough to see every one of her downcast lashes.

"From now on," he said, his voice steady, "I'll be the one protecting you."

Molly smiled faintly and sank into his arms, nodding. "Okay."

 

The surgery was scheduled for two weeks later.

The night before, Edward had the nurses remove all the medical equipment. The room suddenly felt much more spacious.

He sat on the edge of the bed, staring out the window.

Molly was packing things up.

The next morning, the lights in the operating room came on. Before the procedure, the doctor repeated—again and again—the probability of failure.

Edward had already changed into his surgical gown.

The pale blue hospital garment hung loosely on his frame, making him look even thinner than usual.

He sat on the edge of the bed, his hair neatly combed, his face still pale—but his eyes calm.

After a while, the doctor arrived.

Edward signed the consent form. Then, finally, he was wheeled toward the operating room.

Just before the doors, he turned his head, casting one last reluctant glance outside.

Molly looked back at him with the same depth of feeling.

The moment the operating room doors swung shut, it felt as though everything—all the pain, all the mistakes—had been wiped clean.

Now, all she could do was wait.

And hope for the answer she desperately needed.