Chapter 120 Ten Thousand and One Black Roses
Grace continued, "Besides, why would I need to get married? I have Max, I have two hundred million dollars in cash—why would I need marriage?" She smiled sweetly. "Don't you think I have a point, Mr. Hayes?"
Alexander found himself speechless.
Grace laughed softly. "Besides, you were the one who wanted the divorce in the first place. You're the one who made me sign those papers. Now you come asking for remarriage—I think I have the right to refuse."
His reminder jolted Alexander's memory.
It was indeed he who had forced her to sign the divorce papers.
He had completely forgotten.
Seeing Alexander's serious expression and his silence, Grace asked, "Is there anything else you'd like to say, Mr. Hayes? If not, I need to sleep. You can see yourself out."
With that, she lay down and wrapped herself in the blanket, leaving only half her face visible.
Alexander looked at her, slowly rising to his feet. "I won't disturb your rest any longer." He turned and left the room.
The moment he was gone, Grace finally exhaled in relief.
She had been sleeping peacefully until Alexander's sudden visit completely destroyed any chance of rest.
These past few days of intensive physical therapy had left her aching everywhere.
The more pain she felt, the more memories surfaced.
How Emily had ruthlessly pushed her from such a height.
How Alexander, knowing full well Emily was the perpetrator, had chosen to protect her anyway.
The world was full of injustices. That was simply reality.
Alexander reached the car downstairs, where Liam was pressed against the window, watching him approach with eager eyes.
As the car door opened, Liam immediately looked up with hope, silently asking, 'Did the proposal work?'
Alexander's voice was cold. "She said no."
Liam's eyes widened, his small mouth forming a silent 'o'.
Alexander repeated with emphasis, "She doesn't want to marry me."
Liam's disappointment was crushing.
He grabbed a throw pillow beside him and hurled it at Alexander with all his might.
Alexander caught it smoothly, settled into the car, and tucked the pillow back into Liam's arms. "Don't force the impossible."
Suddenly, Liam grabbed his phone and started typing. Images popped up on the screen.
He thrust the phone toward Alexander, who glanced at the dense array of pictures—roses everywhere.
999 roses in a massive bouquet.
9,999 roses in an enormous arrangement, with white roses spelling out "I LOVE YOU."
99,999 roses carpeting the ground in romantic, vibrant splendor.
Alexander's assessment was blunt, "Tacky."
The driver started the engine, chuckling. "Who knew Liam was such a romantic? They say women can't resist roses, especially 9,999 of them. For women, that's the ultimate romantic gesture."
Alexander shot the driver a sharp look.
The driver immediately fell silent under that gaze, muttering reluctantly, "When I gave my wife roses on Valentine's Day, she was thrilled."
"Nobody asked you to speak," Alexander said flatly.
The driver nodded sheepishly. "Yes, sir."
The next day.
After finishing breakfast and letting it settle, Grace got out of bed and began her painful rehabilitation routine with the walker.
The doctor said once she could walk steadily, they'd move to the next phase of her recovery program.
It was agonizing.
What used to be simple walking had become an excruciating ordeal.
Grace had never been good with pain. She'd long forgotten the agony of childbirth, but now every step was torture.
After just a few steps, she was drenched in cold sweat.
Commotion erupted from the nurses' station.
Grace looked up to see Henry approaching.
Today he wasn't wearing his white coat, but instead a crisp white shirt paired with gray trousers, making him look even more distinguished and refined.
"Mr. Phillips..." the nurse's aide said respectfully. Having worked at the hospital for years, she recognized Henry as the future heir to Phillips Group.
Henry told the aide, "You can return to the room. I'll look after her."
The aide hesitated, glancing between Henry and Grace.
Grace spoke up uncertainly, "That's not necessary..."
Henry moved to her side, correcting her grip and posture. "You're holding it wrong—you'll injure your knees and wrists like that. Walker grips aren't supposed to be held that way."
He adjusted the walker's height and corrected her hand position.
Grace had an epiphany. "No wonder my wrists hurt! I was gripping it wrong..."
The aide nodded approvingly. "Mr. Phillips, you're so knowledgeable. I feel comfortable leaving Ms. Foster in your care."
With that, she returned to the room.
Henry moved closer to Grace's side. His sudden proximity enveloped her in his cologne.
She instinctively stepped back.
Henry noticed her retreat and looked down. "Are you allergic to cologne?"
Grace quickly shook her head. "No... no, I'm not."
"Let me walk with you for a bit," Henry said.
Grace nodded absently.
She gripped the walker, taking step after careful step, while Henry followed closely behind. His eyes never left her, and whenever her legs weakened and she nearly fell, he instinctively reached out to steady her, then held back, afraid of unwanted physical contact that might make her uncomfortable.
She walked with painstaking care.
He followed with equal caution.
After half a lap, Grace was already breathing heavily and had to stop, her breath coming in short gasps.
Henry pulled out a handkerchief and gently dabbed the cold sweat from her forehead. "Does it hurt?"
Grace nodded. "Yes... it hurts."
She thought she might finally understand what the little mermaid in fairy tales felt like—dancing on knife points after trading her tail for human legs.
Grace looked up and met Henry's gentle gaze, quickly averting her eyes and changing the subject. "Don't you... have work today?"
"I took the day off," Henry said. After a pause, he asked, "Don't you want to see me?"
Grace quickly denied it. "It's not that."
Henry smiled softly. "I thought perhaps you didn't want me around."
Suddenly, excited exclamations erupted from the nurses' station.
"Oh my God! Look at that enormous bouquet of roses!"
"There must be 9,999 of them!"
"Who sent them? There's no way they'll fit in a room!"
Amid the buzz of voices, a polite male voice could be heard, "Excuse me, which room is Ms. Grace Foster in?"
A nurse asked, "Are these for Grace?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"Who sent them?"
The man replied courteously, "I'm sorry, that's confidential client information."