Chapter 250

'David' still had to make trips back to the city every few days.

Beatrice never asked what he did there, and he never offered much explanation beyond "family business."

But each time he returned, he brought something back.

Sometimes it was cinnamon rolls from a new bakery in the city, sweet but not cloying.

Sometimes it was teething toys for Ray, shaped like cute little animals.

Once, he brought back a delicate orchid, saying it was a new variety from a friend's greenhouse that would thrive in the mountain climate.

As he arranged the orchid on the windowsill, adjusting its leaves, he said with seeming casualness, "See? It doesn't need some fancy cage. Give it soil, water, and sunlight, and it blooms beautifully."

Beatrice was changing Ray's diaper when she heard this, her movements pausing slightly.

She knew he was responding to what she'd said at dinner that night.

This was his clumsy way of telling her he'd learned how to love her.

Days flowed like the mountain stream—quiet and gentle.

The ice in Beatrice's heart melted completely in this slow, daily warmth without her even realizing it.

She even grew accustomed to how 'David' would tie on her little bear apron every evening and create a table of simple but steaming hot dishes in the kitchen.

She got used to how he'd immediately drop whatever he was doing when Ray cried, holding the child with inexperienced but infinitely patient arms as he paced around the courtyard.

This man called 'David' had become like a tree, quietly putting down roots in her life.

This afternoon, Frederick returned from the city again.

When the car stopped at the garden gate, and he got out, his form swayed, nearly needing the car door for support to steady himself.

Beatrice was holding Ray on the front porch, enjoying the afternoon breeze, when she immediately noticed something was wrong.

His face had an unhealthy flush.

"You're back?" Beatrice stood up and walked toward him.

"Yes," Frederick responded, his voice severely hoarse.

He forced a smile and tried to play with Ray, but his raised hand seemed weak.

"You look terrible. Are you feeling alright?" Beatrice frowned.

"I'm fine—just traffic on the way back. Got tired."

He waved her off and headed to his own courtyard, his steps unsteady.

Beatrice watched his retreating figure, her unease growing.

At dinner time, Frederick didn't come over.

After much hesitation, Beatrice decided to check on him.

His garden gate was ajar. She pushed it open—the house was completely quiet.

No one in the living room, just a discarded jacket thrown carelessly on the sofa.

She walked to the bedroom doorway and peered inside.

Frederick lay on the bed fully clothed, the blanket only covering his waist, his brow furrowed tightly. Even in sleep, he radiated restless agitation.

Beatrice reached out to feel his forehead.

Burning hot.

She turned to search for the medical kit.

Then she went to the kitchen to boil water, filled a basin with cold water, and got clean towels.

She wrung out a towel and returned to the bedside, gently wiping his forehead, neck, and palms.

In his sleep, he seemed to sense the coolness, mumbling incoherently.

"...the proposal... won't work..."

Beatrice's hand stilled.

He was handling business affairs while making time every day to travel back and forth caring for her and Ray.

How could he not be exhausted?

Looking at his furrowed brow, the gentle temperament he'd cultivated was now completely burned away by fever, leaving only Frederick's own weariness and vulnerability.

Her heart sank.

She found fever medication, poured water, and went to the bedside, trying to wake him.

"Wake up, time for medicine." She shook his shoulder.

Frederick showed no response, only turned over uncomfortably.

Beatrice grew anxious, increasing her force and raising her voice slightly: "Frederick! Wake up! Take your medicine first!"

The moment the words left her mouth, both she and Frederick froze.

Frederick's unfocused eyes suddenly sharpened at hearing that name.

He jerked awake, the confusion and sickness quickly fading from his eyes, replaced by shock and sharpness at having his disguise exposed.

He looked at Beatrice before him, forcing words through his hoarse throat: "What... did you call me?"

The air seemed to solidify.

Beatrice held the water cup steadily, not a tremor in her hands.

That thin veil between them had been completely torn by her careless words.

With things as they were, continuing to pretend would be laughable.

She placed the cup and medicine on the nightstand, looking at him with calm composure. "How long are you planning to keep up this act, Mr. Stuart?"

Frederick's pupils contracted.

He struggled to sit up but felt weak all over, falling back down.

He wanted to make excuses, but looking into Beatrice's clear, knowing eyes, all his prepared explanations stuck in his throat.

"I don't know what you're talking about..." He made one last attempt, but his voice lacked conviction.

Beatrice suddenly smiled—a smile mixed with resignation and relief.

"Really?" She pulled over a nearby chair and sat down, methodically beginning her accounting.

"Dennis driving his limited-edition sports car to coincidentally meet me in these remote mountains—what amazing fate we have."

"And your 'family business'—every single trip perfectly timed with Stuart Group's major policy announcements. When that European partnership deal was happening, you were 'in the city' for three days, then Stuart Group's website announced the new project launch. Mr. Stuart, do you think I'm stupid?"

She paused, her gaze falling on the expertly tailored shirt hanging on his bedside rack.

"Or did you think that changing into old clothes, wearing glasses, and faking a limp would make me unable to recognize you?"

Frederick fell completely silent.

He lay there, his high fever causing splitting headaches, but nothing compared to the tempest in his heart.

He'd thought his disguise was flawless, thought she still didn't know—but she'd known everything all along.

A wave of embarrassment and defeat washed over him.

"I..." He opened his mouth but couldn't say a word.

Seeing his disheveled state, the anger in Beatrice's heart somehow dissipated.

She sighed, picked up the medicine and water from the nightstand, held them to his lips, and softened her tone. "Take your medicine first."

Frederick looked at her with complicated emotions.

He didn't move.

"Do I need to feed you?" Beatrice raised an eyebrow.

He struggled to prop himself up against the headboard, took the medicine and water from her hands, and swallowed everything in one gulp.

"When did you know?" he asked hoarsely.

"I suspected when Dennis appeared."

Beatrice tucked the blanket around him. "That day I accidentally saw you on the phone in your room—that confirmed it."

Frederick's expression darkened. So early.

"Why... didn't you expose me?"

"I was scared," Beatrice spoke honestly.

"I was afraid you wanted to drag me back again."

She looked at him, her gaze no longer guarded or distant, only calm.

"But I saw a man clumsily learning to cook, saw a father frantically trying to comfort a child..."

"Frederick," she called his name with perfect clarity.

"I used to think you married me because you needed an obedient, beautiful wife as decoration. I was just the most satisfactory piece in your collection."

"No!" Frederick interrupted urgently, his agitation triggering violent coughing.

Beatrice quickly patted his back.

"I never thought that."

He gasped for breath, his eyes red from fever and emotional intensity. "From the first time I saw you at university, I..."

He stopped—expressing these long-held feelings in this context made them seem more like evidence of guilt.

"I just... didn't know how to be good to you."

His voice dropped, carrying unprecedented helplessness.

"I was afraid—afraid you'd leave, afraid I'd never find you again."

He looked at her with burning, earnest eyes. "Beatrice, I didn't want to be your master. I just wanted to be your husband. But you were afraid of me."

The bedroom was very quiet, only the sound of wind outside.

Beatrice listened silently until he finished, then, after a long pause, she spoke.

"Do you remember what I asked you that night?"

"You said people can change. How will you know unless you try?"

Beatrice repeated his words, then looked into his eyes and asked word by word, "So, I'm giving you another chance. Do you want it?"

Frederick's breathing stopped for an instant.

He couldn't believe what he was hearing.

Overwhelming joy swept away all the discomfort from his fever, like fireworks exploding in his mind.

He looked at her, trying to find even the slightest trace of joking on her face, but found none.

Her expression was serious and resolute.

"I do."

He answered hoarsely, using every ounce of his strength.

Then he suddenly leaned forward, despite still being sick, and pulled her into his arms.

His body was burning hot, radiating scorching temperature through their clothes. Beatrice didn't struggle, letting him hold her.

This embrace held no desire, only the precious weight of something lost and found, and lingering fear.

After a long while, he loosened his hold slightly, his burning palms cupping her face. He lowered his head, and a kiss—medicinal, burning hot—gently landed on her lips.

It wasn't a domineering, possessive kiss.

It carried tentative caution and almost reverent cherishing.

Outside the window, night fell gently. In that moment, the cage door was closed by the person inside.

Not for imprisonment, but for protection.

——THE END——