Chapter 19 No More Rubbing
Armando carried Sherry, freshly discharged after her examination, straight out of the hospital and into the waiting car.
"You need to be more careful next time," he said, his voice edged with frustration. "Your left hand isn't fully healed yet, and now it's your foot."
Sherry's tone was soft, almost coaxing. "Don't be mad. I promise I'll behave from now on. I'm sorry... I shouldn't have gone to the banquet tonight. I didn't know it was for..." Her voice trailed off.
Her eyes stung as she blinked, the rims turning red. "If I had known, I wouldn't have gone."
Armando's expression softened. He sighed. "I'm sorry. It's my fault for making you feel this way. Sherry, give me another six months... please?"
He pulled her closer, pressing a gentle kiss to her forehead.
"It's all my fault. If I hadn't chosen to go abroad back then... Armando, I'm sorry." Sherry leaned against him, her voice thick with regret.
Armando's mind flickered to the years Elizabeth had taken care of him after Sherry left for overseas. For a moment, he drifted.
"I'm thinking of moving out of Imperial Garden. Word has gotten around... everyone knows Elizabeth is my wife. I can't stay there anymore."
Armando shook off the thought and said, "You don't have to move. I'll transfer Imperial Garden to your name. Sherry, in six months, I'll marry you."
He wasn't sure if he was saying it for her benefit or to convince himself. What he did know was that he couldn't bear to see Sherry upset.
But his words didn't ease her worry.
She kept thinking about what she had overheard in the study. It made her uneasy.
Elizabeth was still going to be Armando's secretary.
Sherry wanted to ask why he was letting Elizabeth back into his orbit, but she couldn't let him know she had overheard his call with her.
Six months was enough time for many things to change.
Sherry didn't want to gamble on that.
"While I'm recovering, can I visit you at the Johnson Group sometimes? I'll be in disguise, so the media and fans won't find out."
At the Carlton Hotel.
Elizabeth was at Cruz's side, bristling at the doorway, when a familiar low voice came from inside the room. "Come in."
She tilted her head, craning her neck to peek inside.
Timothy stood there with a glass of whiskey in hand, his presence filling the space.
"Mr. Robinson."
Timothy glanced at her, sipping lazily.
Elizabeth stepped in as Cruz closed the door behind them.
Sometimes, she thought, the more you tried to keep your distance, the more the universe conspired to push you together. Timothy was one of those people.
She perched on a barstool and poured herself a glass of red wine without asking.
Before she could take a sip, Timothy reached over, took the glass, and drank it himself.
Elizabeth stared at him, incredulous. "If you wanted a drink, you could have poured your own."
He ignored her protest, picking up a teapot instead. "You can have tea."
Elizabeth's eyes had already caught the label on the wine bottle — worth at least four million dollars. She wanted just a taste.
"Just one sip?"
Timothy wasn't stingy. He poured her a small glass.
Elizabeth gave him a flat look. "Mr. Robinson, I still need to speak to the hotel manager. Thanks for the wine."
She downed the sip, hopped down from the barstool, her toes touching the floor.
Timothy's gaze lingered on her carefully made-up face. "You'd be better off talking to me. This hotel belongs to the Robinson family."
Elizabeth didn't want his help. Some things were too awkward to explain.
Just then, Timothy's phone buzzed.
A video from Nico appeared.
Nico: [Mr. Robinson, this is the video Mrs. Johnson requested.]
Timothy's eyes narrowed slightly at Nico's choice of address for Elizabeth. He tapped the video open.
Elizabeth saw it too. She lowered her head, shifting uncomfortably — her foot was aching.
Timothy paused the video, reached for a pair of flat guest slippers, and set them at her feet. "Put these on."
Then he resumed watching.
When the video ended, he frowned, his expression unreadable. "Why do you women enjoy these little games so much?"
Elizabeth slipped into the slippers and tilted her chin. "Why do you men enjoy playing the hero?"
He gave a single-word verdict. "Stupid."
Elizabeth's neck stiffened. "It's called love. Beauty is in the eye of the beholder."
"Love? When the other woman is knocking on your door, and you're still clinging to the bad guy?"
His tone was mocking, his gaze sharp — as if her whole life revolved around romance. He almost wanted to crack her skull open just to see what she was thinking.
Elizabeth touched her forehead instinctively. "I don't love him anymore. I'm learning to let go. I'm not a masochist."
If not for the secrecy of their deal, she would have posted her divorce certificate online already.
The thought alone made her feel better.
Timothy studied her face, noting her seriousness. Whether he believed her or not, he gave a small nod and didn't press further.
"I sent you the video. Go lie down on the sofa."
She frowned. "Why?"
"I want to check your lower back and apply some medicine."
Seeing her dress, he fetched a clean T-shirt and a pair of long pants for her.
Elizabeth didn't move. "No need. I'll have someone else do it when I get home."
Timothy's gaze held hers. "I'm a doctor."
They stared at each other in silence.
Her scalp prickled under his unwavering look. She took the clothes and retreated into the bathroom.
When she returned, she had compromised — wearing the oversized pants, the waistband cinched with a rubber band.
Timothy's lips curved faintly at the sight.
Her shirt lifted slightly, revealing the smooth line of her lower back.
His hand paused with the medicine in hand.
The air conditioning hummed softly, but her skin felt warm.
He dabbed the ointment onto her skin, the sharp scent filling the room.
Then came the massage. His fingers pressed into the sore spot, working the bruise.
Elizabeth winced occasionally, the small sounds slipping out, sending an unexpected shiver down his spine.
"Mr. Robinson, you can stop. It'll heal in a few days."
"This will help. Bear with it."
She didn't reply.
"Done."
She sat up, cradling her back, her face lit with relief. She gave him a dazzling smile. "Thanks."
His mouth tipped in a faint smile.
Timothy went to wash his hands.
Armando's call came through again. This time, Elizabeth answered.
"What is it?"
"Where are you?"
"Out, just like you told me."
She ended the call abruptly. Armando frowned — her temper was getting worse.
Timothy returned to find her tossing the phone onto the sofa, leaning back with a sigh.
Her graceful neck arched against the cushion.
He walked over, eyeing her posture. "Your neck looks broken."
Elizabeth looked at him. "I'm staying here tonight, okay?..."
She didn't finish the rest — the rooms were plenty, and she didn't feel like moving.
Timothy leaned in, one hand braced on the back of the sofa, the other lifting her head.
His eyes were shadowed, unreadable.
His lips hovered close to hers.