Chapter 60 Never Felt Moved
"I'll find time to convince my mother, but you need to give me a chance," Wentworth kept trying.
Matilda let out a cold laugh. "How much time? A year? Two years? Ten years?"
Wentworth fell silent, unable to answer. That silence already revealed he wasn't completely confident he could change things.
Matilda smiled sarcastically. "Wentworth—oh sorry, Mr. Gonzaga—our marriage never had an emotional foundation to begin with. You only wanted to marry me because you discovered physical contact with me helped you sleep. And me? I only married you to escape people who wanted to hurt me. It was mutually beneficial, nothing more. Plus, we've been together all this time and never actually... consummated things. Better to cut our losses now while we can."
Wentworth was stunned. Was that really how she saw their marriage?
Fighting through the pain, he asked, "Have you never... never had feelings for me at all?"
Feelings?
Matilda's chest felt like it was being sliced with a knife.
When he grilled steaks and cooked pasta for her, when he drove her to the mountaintop to scream into the wind, when they dozed together on that bench in the countryside vineyard... she'd felt something every time.
She'd imagined building a life with him, creating a home that belonged to both of them.
But she wasn't worthy of that.
She couldn't gamble her entire future on his brief moments of tenderness, making herself an enemy of the entire elite world.
His mother would mock her, his family would look down on her, everyone who knew her would say she was a gold digger. And someday, when his insomnia was cured, maybe he wouldn't need her anymore.
She laughed coldly. "Feelings? What are those? I've never known what feelings are."
Wentworth's grip on her hand immediately loosened.
Matilda took that moment to turn and head upstairs, returning to her apartment and deadbolting the door behind her.
She didn't turn on the lights, just lay on the bed she'd slept in since childhood, staring at the ceiling and endless darkness.
...
As Wentworth left, a figure stood hidden around the stairway corner—Ethan.
He'd arrived early but stayed hidden when he heard them arguing downstairs.
So he'd heard every word Matilda said.
She wanted a divorce? She'd never loved Wentworth?
His fists clenched slightly, a flash of excitement running through him. Did this mean he still had a chance?
...
Wentworth returned home—the place where he'd grown up.
This was an independent mansion in Phoenix City's northern suburbs, sprawling across several acres with a heated pool, private tennis court, family library, and mini golf course.
The entire house blazed with light, central air conditioning sending out cold currents that carried a bone-deep chill—the kind that seeped from skin straight into the soul.
A servant greeted him immediately upon entry. "Mr. Gonzaga."
"Mr. Gonzaga, Mrs. Gonzaga has been asking for you ever since she woke up this afternoon," the elderly butler approached quietly.
Wentworth nodded. "I understand."
He climbed to the second floor and stopped outside the first bedroom door.
Before he could even pause, the door was pulled open from within—Charles.
Charles looked at him with heavy expression. "You're back?"
Wentworth nodded. "How is Mom?"
Charles shook his head. "Not good. She's been insisting on seeing you."
Wentworth entered the room.
In the bedroom, Amelia lay on a king-sized bed, white velvet bedding making her complexion appear even more pale.
Seeing Wentworth, her expression immediately turned frigid. "So you do remember to come home?"
"Mom," Wentworth said quietly.
"I'm not your mother. I was unconscious and you just ran off. If that's how it is, why bother acknowledging me at all?" Amelia's voice was ice-cold and cutting.
Pain flickered in Wentworth's eyes.
Torn between his mother and the woman he wanted to protect—this choice was harder than any business battle.
Charles tried to ease the tension. "Mom, Matty has a unique constitution that helps with Wentworth's insomnia. Just think of her as a treatment method. Maybe you could get to know her first—"
Amelia cut him off before he could finish. "How dare you keep defending this? If you hadn't helped him hide it, he never would have trapped himself in such a reckless marriage so young! You're both trying to send me to an early grave! Can't the Gonzaga family afford the world's top medical experts to treat insomnia?"
Charles fell silent, only able to give Wentworth a sympathetic look.
Wentworth gazed at Amelia. "Mom, are you really going to force me to divorce?"
"I'll say this once—choose her or choose me," Amelia said coldly.
"But I do need to marry eventually."
"I'll decide who you marry. That Matilda isn't worthy of you. I'll choose a girl from an appropriate family who can benefit both you and the Gonzaga Group."
Wentworth's voice remained calm. "What kind of benefit? She makes me happy—a happiness I've never experienced before. Isn't that the greatest benefit of all?"
Amelia scoffed. "How old are you? Still believing in fairy tales? We're an elite family, not common people. Wentworth, you need to be realistic!" Her emotional outburst triggered a coughing fit.
Charles immediately went to her side, rubbing her back. "Mom, ease up. Wentworth, stop provoking her."
Wentworth could only walk over and pour a glass of warm water for Amelia.
After taking a sip, Amelia said coldly, "From today on, you will not see that Matilda again. Get the divorce papers filed. I'll give her a compensation package that satisfies her."
Wentworth didn't respond.
Matilda's words kept echoing in his mind—"I've never known what feelings are."
Had she really never cared for him at all?
...
The next day, Amelia called a meeting with all department heads from the Gonzaga Group's medical and biological research divisions.
Charles and Wentworth were also forced to attend.
Amelia placed Wentworth's medical reports on the conference table, directly posing the problem. "These are Wentworth's test results. He suffers from severe insomnia. I'm requiring you to develop medication that will let him sleep within one week."
The conference room fell silent.
Charles had already held similar meetings before with identical results—expert teams had been assembled, but Wentworth's condition involved neurological aftereffects from poisoning. Modern medicine was still researching solutions; there were no established treatment protocols.
"What? Is this condition too difficult for you?" Seeing the experts' expressions, Amelia's face grew colder.
She slammed her hand on the table. "If you can't figure it out within a week, you're all fired!"
...
Matilda had slept well again last night.
Since childhood, she'd told herself—no matter what happened, sleep on it first, then deal with it. So she almost never suffered from insomnia.
After waking up, thoughts of Wentworth still caused her heart to ache.
But she'd also learned something else from an early age—whether with people or situations, you had to be able to pick them up and put them down again.
After the pain subsided, she pushed the emotions aside, washed up, changed clothes, and prepared for work.
Going downstairs, she happened to run into Ethan.
He was carrying two takeout breakfast containers—one with bacon, eggs, and pancakes, the other a turkey sandwich.
"Morning, Matty." Ethan's smile was radiant.