Chapter 71 Still Overestimating Yourself
Cecilia let out a small, bitter laugh at herself, marveling at her own foolish hope.
The moment Rufus left, she didn't waste a second. She had been waiting for this chance—waiting for the one moment when she could see Patrick again.
Today was perfect. Rufus had brought her back unexpectedly, and the usual tight security was loosened. No guards outside. No eyes watching her every move.
If not now, then never.
She slipped toward the front hall, her steps quick but measured. The door was only a few feet away when she heard a voice behind her.
"Ms. Thorne," Orla said softly, "Mr. Chapman told me you are not to leave the villa without his permission."
Cecilia froze. Orla stood there, looking torn. She didn't want to stop Cecilia, but it was her job. If Cecilia walked out, Orla would be the one Rufus blamed.
Cecilia could have ignored her and run. But that would be selfish—Orla had helped her more than once. She couldn't repay kindness with betrayal.
"I want to see my grandfather one last time, Orla… you know this." Her voice trembled when she said Patrick's name. "I asked you before—when I'm gone, bury me beside him. Now I just want to find out where they've hidden his body, to pay my respects. My time is running out."
Orla's eyes softened. It was hard to stand in front of someone so young, so alive, and hear them speak of their own dwindling days without feeling something.
She sighed.
Seeing the hesitation, Cecilia stepped closer. "I'll come back quickly. I don't want to put you in a difficult position, but there is risk… This is the first and last favor I'll ever ask you. Please—look at me. I'm dying. Would you grant me this one wish?"
She wasn't lying. At the end of life, there was no point in deceit. People said that when death came near, even the worst souls softened. Cecilia had never been a cruel person.
Two kind hearts would always recognize each other. Orla couldn't bear to watch her like this.
"Go, Ms. Thorne," Orla said quietly. "Do what you need to do. I'll keep Mr. Chapman occupied."
It was sincere. Orla wanted Cecilia's final days to hold something better than confinement.
Cecilia gave her a grateful look but didn't linger. Every second wasted was another second closer to being caught. She needed to finish quickly, to return before her absence dragged Orla into trouble.
She followed her memory to Patrick's burial site.
Row by row, she searched. The photos on the gravestones blurred past—faces she didn't know. Some were elderly, some in their prime, some heartbreakingly young. She didn't have time to dwell. She just needed to find him.
But he wasn't there.
The spot Rufus had described was nothing but an empty grave.
"How… how is this possible?" Her voice cracked. Panic clawed at her chest. Fear of being discovered tangled with guilt at the thought of dragging others into trouble, and the gnawing anxiety of not finding Patrick. It was too much. Her breath came uneven, ragged.
Then she saw him.
Brad.
"You're out?" she blurted. "Rufus was supposed to keep you locked in the villa."
Brad removed his sunglasses, his gaze dripping with amusement. "Not many days left for you, and you still manage to make yourself look this pathetic."
She ignored the jab, rushing toward him like someone grabbing the last rope before drowning. Her hands clutched his. "My grandfather—where is he buried?"
Brad chuckled, as if she had just told a ridiculous joke. "You don't know? And you came here to look?"
Her grip tightened. "What are you talking about? Tell me. Now."
Her voice was sharp, almost desperate. Anything involving Patrick stripped away her composure.
Annoyed, Brad shoved her back, brushing at his sleeve where she had touched him.
"That old bastard never respected me," he sneered. "What's a few extra years of schooling worth? He raised a daughter who ended up in my bed without a wedding ring. And his granddaughter? A coward."
Cecilia's jaw clenched. She didn't want to hear his poison. "Where is he?"
Brad's smile turned cruel. "His ashes? Scattered. Gone."
Her breath caught.
"Rufus put me in charge of the arrangements. You think I'd honor that man? I hated him. I wanted him restless even in death. So after the burial, I had the grave dug up. I took his ashes and let the wind have them. Now he's nothing—no home, no peace. Just a wandering ghost."
The words hit her like a blow. Brad looked satisfied, watching her struggle for air.
"You shouldn't look at me like that," he said. "When Bronte threw you away, I picked you up. Without me, you'd have starved in the streets. You never showed gratitude. Instead, you treated me and your sister like enemies. Ungrateful…"
In Brad's mind, everything he had done to her was justified. The experiments, the pain—those were debts she owed. He had given her life twice, and if Blair needed her life in return, so be it.
But Cecilia had resisted him at every turn.
"Not surprising," Brad went on. "You've got Patrick's blood in you."
The insult was too much. Patrick was the one person she had loved without condition, the one who had raised her with care. Hearing Brad drag his name through the dirt made her see red.
"Shut your mouth! You're not even worthy to say his name."
She lunged at him, ready to tear him down even if it meant destroying herself in the process. But she was too weak. Brad caught her easily and shoved her to the ground. Pain shot through her arm as her elbow scraped against the rough earth. Blood dotted her sleeve.
"Pathetic," he said flatly. "Even now, you overestimate yourself."
He shook his head. "I still wonder how I ended up with a daughter like you. No wonder you didn't even realize why you lost that baby."