Chapter 47 Unwilling to Take Responsibility
Rufus said nothing more. He fastened his belt with a sharp, deliberate motion, the leather snapping back into place.
His expression was closed, unreadable.
For the past several days, he had been making frequent trips to the hospital, almost every other day, leaving a mountain of unresolved matters piled up at the Chapman Group.
Once Rufus was gone, the mask fell from Cecilia's face. The practiced smile, the careful deference—gone. In their place was a raw, unguarded weariness that she could no longer hide.
She exhaled slowly, a sound that was more resignation than relief, and began straightening her clothes with mechanical precision.
When she was certain the buttons were fastened and the folds smoothed, she rose from the bed.
She didn't go far. Instead, she crossed the hallway to the living room, where the old landline phone sat on a small table.
In the days when Rufus had kept her prisoner here, he had ordered the staff to remove every phone line in the house.
But she had noticed something earlier—this time, when they returned, the cord had been reconnected. That meant there was a way to reach the outside world.
Her palms were damp as she lifted the receiver. She dialed the number she knew by heart, each digit imprinted into her memory like a lifeline.
With every ring, her heartbeat thudded harder, as if each tone were a hammer striking her chest. Her eyes flicked toward the upstairs study, nerves taut, half-expecting Rufus to appear without warning.
But the door upstairs stayed closed. The line clicked, and a familiar voice—warm, measured—came through.
"Hello? May I ask who's calling?"
It was Charles. His tone was polite, but there was a distance in it, a careful formality she wasn't used to hearing from him.
"It's me," she said, clutching the phone tighter.
The change in his voice was immediate. "Cecilia! How have you been? I've been worried—I couldn't reach you, and when I went to the hospital, there were guards outside your room every time."
The sound of his concern softened something inside her, but there was no time for sentiment. Every second she stayed on the line increased the risk of being discovered.
"Charles, I need your help," she said quietly, though the weight in her voice was heavy enough to crush him.
He knew her too well.
On the surface, she seemed gentle, even fragile. But inside, she had always been fiercely self-reliant.
As a child, she never cried when bullied, even when cruel words were thrown at her. She would simply repeat, stubbornly, "I have a father—you just haven't met him."
For her to ask for help now meant she had reached a wall she could not climb alone.
"Tell me," Charles said, his voice firm. "You don't have to be polite with me."
"I want to leave here. Can you help me?"
The words came with a clarity born of desperation. Moments ago, when Rufus had tried to force himself on her, something in her had crystallized. She could not stay here, not another day. She would not die in his shadow.
"If I have to die," she added, "I want it to be by the sea. I don't want to be buried in the ground. Scatter my ashes in the ocean."
She thought briefly of Patrick—his remains would be treated the same.
Charles's reply was immediate. "I'll agree to the first part. But don't talk like that. I won't allow it."
She only smiled faintly and shook her head, saying nothing more. There was no point debating. All that mattered was finding a way out.
"I have an idea," Charles said, and for the first time in days, hope flickered in her chest.
"Knowing Rufus," he continued, "if he believes you're alive, he'll never let you go."
Cecilia let out a humorless laugh. "Yes… He's relentless."
In another life, that kind of devotion might have been a blessing between lovers. Between her and Rufus, it was a curse.
"And if he thought you were dead?" Charles asked."
It took her a moment to understand what he was suggesting. Then it clicked—he wanted her to fake her death.
"It might work," she admitted, "but Rufus is cautious. I'm afraid he won't be fooled."
"I've thought of that," Charles said. "When the time is right, set a fire in the villa. I'll arrange for a body—similar in build to yours—to be found there. Rufus is careful, but he won't go so far as to confirm every detail."
His voice hardened slightly. "From that moment on, Cecilia will be dead. That name, that identity—it ends in the fire."
She understood. If she kept using her name, it would only be a matter of time before Rufus found her again. The thought left her oddly hollow, but freedom outweighed sentiment.
"Thank you," she said, meaning it.
When she hung up, her pulse was still racing, but it was a different kind of rush—hope instead of fear. That night, for the first time in what felt like forever, she slept deeply. No midnight injections. No pain gnawing at her body. Perhaps it was the anticipation of escape, but she even smiled before drifting off.
She wished for more nights like this, nights without pain, nights without waking in terror.
But fate rarely cooperated.
Rufus returned to the villa at three in the morning. Louis had asked if he wanted to go back to the hospital, but Rufus refused.
Niamh hurried to prepare sobering soup for him, but when she offered the bowl, Rufus shoved it away. The broth splashed across the floor, the ceramic shattering into pieces.
"Where's Cecilia?" he demanded, tugging irritably at his tie. "Wake her up. I need her to make me sobering soup. I feel awful."
Niamh crouched to gather the shards, her voice ingratiating. "Mrs. Chapman has already gone to bed."
"Then wake her," Rufus said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. He rose, unsteady on his feet, and headed for the bedroom.
"Cecilia! Cecilia!" His voice carried through the hallway, loud and unrestrained. Somehow, she didn't stir until he pushed the door open with force.
"What are you doing?" she asked, clutching the blanket around herself, wary of his temper.
He rapped his knuckles lightly against the doorframe, his tone brooking no argument. "I'm drunk. I need you to make me sobering soup."
She stared at him, baffled. "Niamh can make it for you."
Why wake her for this?
But Rufus had never cared about what she thought.
He straightened, his voice sharp with self-justification. "You're Mrs. Chapman. When your husband comes home from a business dinner, making him sobering soup is your duty. Or do you think you can enjoy the title without taking responsibility for it?"