Chapter 59 The Return
Cecilia couldn't remember how she drifted back to sleep in the second half of the night. The hours were a blur of pain—sharp, gnawing waves radiating from her abdomen to every brittle bone—and at some point exhaustion had dragged her under. It wasn't rest; it was surrender.
When she finally opened her eyes, daylight was spilling across the room in pale, unforgiving stripes. Orla was at the door, her voice hesitant but firm. Breakfast was ready. Rufus had been waiting downstairs for some time.
Cecilia forced herself upright, every movement scraping against her limits. She didn't know what Rufus—the madman—might do if she kept him waiting. The thought alone was enough to push her down the staircase, her hand trailing along the banister for balance.
The moment her gaze fell on the dining table, her blood seemed to freeze.
Rufus sat at the head, peeling shrimp with an absent precision, and beside him was Blair.
Blair wore a simple cream cashmere dress that clung to her frame with quiet elegance, the fabric soft enough to whisper against skin. Black lace traced the neckline and cuffs, a delicate contrast against the pale knit. Over it, she had draped a cropped black tweed jacket, gold buttons catching the morning light. She looked nothing like the fragile patient in the hospital—this Blair radiated poise, wealth, and a carefully curated charm.
The sight made Cecilia's stomach drop. Nothing good ever happened when Blair was here.
Rufus glanced up, his tone dripping with disdain. "It takes three calls to get you to the table. Who taught you that habit?"
Orla shifted, ready to speak in Cecilia's defense, but Rufus's sharp look cut her off. She was only a servant—her sympathy carried no weight here.
With a faint, apologetic smile, Orla slipped out, leaving the three of them alone.
Without waiting for Cecilia to speak, Rufus issued his command. "Blair's injuries were severe. The doctor says she needs careful attention. Starting tomorrow, you'll go to the hospital and take care of her until she's fully recovered."
He paused, his eyes locking on hers, voice tightening. "And don't forget who put her in this state. This is your debt, Cecilia. You will pay it."
Sometimes, Cecilia wanted to ask why. Why she had to bear the blame, why he refused to see her side. But the words never made it past her lips. Rufus would never care.
Her lashes lowered, casting a small shadow on her hollow cheeks. She didn't want to argue—every fight with him was another blade across a heart already in tatters. The exhaustion had sunk so deep it felt carved into her bones. Even lifting her gaze felt like too much.
She gave the smallest nod, barely more than a tremor, like a puppet whose strings had been slackened and left to hang.
Rufus studied her compliance, and the irritation he'd carried from her "illness" yesterday eased, replaced by a deep, satisfied sense of control. Good. She was learning. Resistance was useless.
He even allowed himself the arrogance of believing his "lessons" had taught her this. That was, in his mind, progress.
"That's better," he said, his voice softening into something that sounded almost like approval. "Behave, and stop playing those tiresome games."
Then his attention shifted to Blair. His entire demeanor changed—warmth flooding his features as he reached to ruffle her hair. "So, as we agreed, you'll stay home. When I'm done at the office, I'll come back and we'll go see that play together."
He bent and pressed a kiss to her forehead. The tenderness in his eyes was so alien to Cecilia it made her stomach twist.
From where she stood, they looked like the perfect couple—handsome man, graceful woman—while the wife watched from the sidelines, invisible. Sometimes she thought it was almost funny, how thoroughly she had failed at life.
They lingered together for a few moments before Rufus rose, checking the time. Business called. He left in a sharp suit, his presence replaced by a hollow chill that settled over the room.
The door had barely shut when Blair's expression shifted. The delicate, pitiable mask melted away, revealing something sharper—poison edged with satisfaction.
She leaned back in her chair, crossing one leg over the other, her gaze sweeping over Cecilia like she was appraising something foul.
"Look at you. Rufus can't even stand to look at you, can he?" Her voice was a blade, slicing with deliberate cruelty. "If I were you, I'd find somewhere quiet to die. Why bother staying here, cluttering the view?"
Cecilia kept her eyes down, unmoved, as if she hadn't heard.
Blair's temper flared at the lack of reaction. Her voice rose, jagged with rage. "Cecilia! I'm talking to you! Are you deaf? You worthless bitch! Why aren't you dead yet?"
Brad had promised her that Cecilia's life would end. And yet here she was, still breathing.
The words made Cecilia's body flinch—just barely—but Blair saw it. Slowly, Cecilia lifted her head. Something sharp and cold stirred in the hollow darkness of her eyes.
She studied Blair's face, twisted with jealousy, and let her cracked lips part.
Her voice was low, rough, but steady. "Go ahead, Blair. Enjoy yourself. But tell me… if Rufus ever found out that his pure, gentle, innocent girl was actually this venomous creature who wishes me dead, what do you think he'd do?"
"You know him. Rufus hates liars more than anything. In his eyes, you're spotless, harmless. But if that image shattered…" Cecilia tilted her head slightly, as if considering the thought, her mouth curving into a faint, icy smile. "Wouldn't he find you… disgusting?"
"You—!" Blair's triumph froze, replaced by a surge of fury and fear.
Cecilia's words had landed like a poisoned knife, straight into the place Blair guarded most. Her greatest terror was Rufus seeing her true nature. She had spent years building this façade. Cecilia could not be allowed to destroy it.
Rage and panic stripped away Blair's control. Her hand shot out, grabbing the heavy glass tumbler from the table. Without thought, she hurled it at Cecilia's head.
"Die!"
Cecilia hadn't expected the attack. Her weakened body couldn't react in time.
The impact was a muffled, sickening thud.
The glass shattered against her temple, shards scattering across the hardwood. Warm liquid—water and blood—ran down her face, blurring half her vision in a crimson haze.
Pain roared through her skull, her knees buckling. She caught herself against the wall, breath ragged, trying not to collapse.
The blood spread quickly, staining her pale skin and the thin fabric of her clothes. The sight was stark, almost obscene.
And then, from the front hall, came the sound of the door opening.
Rufus had returned. He'd forgotten an important file.