Chapter 61 Acceptance of Death
Cecilia pushed herself up from the carpet, her palm grinding against the floor for leverage.
Pain shot through her hand like a splinter of lightning, sharp and merciless.
She didn't cry. Crying would change nothing. No one here would care about her tears the way they cared about Blair's. They would only see another performance, another act.
Without Rufus's word, Orla stayed away from the living room. The vast space felt hollow, stripped of warmth, and Cecilia stood alone in it. Her own breathing echoed faintly against the walls.
She didn't need a mirror to know how she looked—blood-streaked, hair tangled, clothes wrinkled and stained. A mess. But at least no one was here to witness it. That small mercy was something she could still cling to.
Her gaze dropped to her hand. Blood was pooling in the creases of her palm, trailing down her wrist. A bitter smile touched her lips. She remembered the medical kit kept under the TV cabinet. That was where she needed to go.
She crossed the room slowly, each step deliberate. Kneeling in front of the cabinet, she reached under it and pulled out the kit. The simple act took nearly ten minutes.
Every movement sent a flare of pain through her hand, each touch of her skin against any surface a fresh reminder of how badly she was hurt. She gritted her teeth and kept going.
When Rufus finally emerged from the bedroom with the family doctor, Carl Ward, they both froze at the sight before them.
Cecilia was kneeling on the floor, the medical kit open in front of her, blood smeared across her hands, the carpet, even the lid of the box. The scene was almost grotesque.
"Mrs. Chapman… maybe I should take care of that for you," Carl Ward said quickly, already moving closer.
But Rufus's hand shot out, stopping him.
"Do you have nothing better to do?" Rufus asked, his tone deceptively calm.
Carl blinked. "I'm sorry?"
Rufus repeated it, slower this time, as if speaking to a child. "Do you have nothing better to do? Must you involve yourself in everything?"
Only then did Carl understand—Rufus wasn't asking. He was dismissing him.
Rufus's gaze slid back to Cecilia, his mouth curling into something between amusement and disdain. "You never fail to surprise me. Is this your latest trick? Bleeding all over the floor to get my attention? I'll admit, it's dramatic… but you're overdoing it."
She didn't bother to answer. He thought she was staging this, another ploy to draw him in. Let him think it. She focused on opening the kit, ignoring the way his voice pressed against her like a weight.
That indifference irritated him. In three long strides, he was beside her, his fingers closing around her wrist.
"I'm talking to you," he said, his grip tightening.
Whether intentional or not, his hand pressed directly over her wounds. The pain was sharp enough to make her breath hitch. "Let go," she said, her voice strained, trembling at the edges.
Carl shifted uncomfortably. "Mr. Chapman… if you keep pressing the injury, the glass shards could move deeper. It's dangerous. Let me treat it—"
Rufus didn't even glance at him. His eyes stayed locked on Cecilia, waiting for her to break, to plead.
"I said, let go." Her brows drew together, and her eyes went cold. She looked at him as if he were a stranger.
That look made him laugh softly, though there was no humor in it. "Are you ordering me now?"
She felt the futility of speaking to him. In his mind, her pain was just theater, her defiance an insult. "Rufus… is it only when I die in front of you that you'll be satisfied?" The words came out low and deliberate, each one pushed past the ache in her chest.
For a moment, he froze. Her eyes reminded him of that afternoon—when she'd looked at him without any will to live, as if she might vanish at any second. He couldn't allow that.
His grip tightened instinctively, dragging another sharp breath from her. Then, as if burned, he released her hand.
She didn't ask why. She didn't care. She only shot him a brief, hard look before turning back to the kit.
Carl watched her clumsy movements, the way her injuries slowed her down.
"Mrs. Chapman," he said gently, "you're in no condition to do this yourself. Let me help."
She hesitated. Part of her wanted to refuse out of pride. But she knew she needed help, and she trusted Carl's intentions.
"Thank you," she said finally.
Rufus stood a few feet away, silent, his eyes fixed on her. She knew what that look meant—he was waiting for her to fold, to give him some sign of submission. She didn't. She kept working, wincing only when her fingers brushed fresh wounds.
Carl crouched beside her, his hands steady and deliberate. He worked carefully, but removing the glass and disinfecting the cuts still brought flashes of pain. Cecilia's breathing deepened at times, but her expression remained composed.
"Always the actress," Rufus murmured from behind them.
She didn't respond.
When Carl finished, his expression shifted. "Mrs. Chapman… your blood isn't clotting properly. Do you and Mr. Chapman know about this?"
Her eyes widened slightly. His tone carried a weight she didn't like—pity. She hated pity.
It made sense now. The reason a small injury had left her in this state. Her body was warning her again.
Carl's voice cut into her thoughts. "Mrs. Chapman? Are you listening?"
She blinked, then gave him a faint smile. "We know. My body's at its limit. I don't need a diagnosis to tell me that. I'm just… waiting."
Carl stared at her, stunned. Her calm acceptance of death was something he hadn't expected, something that unsettled him more than the blood on her hands.