Chapter 72 The Life Rufus Never Let Begin
Cecilia sat on the cold concrete floor, the chill seeping through her clothes until it felt like it had fused with her bones. Her pulse had spiked so suddenly it roared in her ears… and then, in the next breath, it was gone, leaving her hollow, drained, and trembling.
Her child. The one who had never drawn a single breath.
It was the deepest wound she carried, the one thing she had never been able to heal from. On nights when Rufus turned away from her without a word, when the silence between them was so heavy she could almost hear it pressing down on her, the memory of that unborn life was the only fragile ember of warmth she had left.
She had always believed it was her fault. That her body had failed. That she had been too weak to protect the only piece of love they had ever created together. Even when Rufus had sneered, told her she couldn't even hold on to a child, she had swallowed the pain and blamed herself.
But now… her father—Brad—was looking at her with an expression she couldn't read. His eyes softened for a moment, but there was a glint there—something almost like satisfaction. As if he was about to hand her a truth sharp enough to cut her to pieces.
"What are you talking about?" Her voice was thin, but she forced it out.
"You really don't know?" Brad's tone dropped, soft as a whisper, but venomous. "It was Rufus. He had someone switch your medication. Your so-called prenatal pills? He made sure they would do the opposite. He never wanted that child. Not from you."
Her stomach twisted, but he wasn't finished.
"He promised Blair long ago—only she would bear his children. You? You got in the way. You carried something that didn't belong, and he made sure it was gone."
Brad's words were knives, each one sinking deeper. There was no trace of fatherly warmth in him, no recognition that the life he was talking about had been his own grandchild.
"No… no, that's not possible!" Cecilia shook her head hard, the blood draining from her face. Her voice broke, trembling. "He hates me, I know that. But he wouldn't… not to a child. That was his child…"
She could still see him, back then, his hand resting lightly on her belly, a flicker of something—hope?—in his eyes. How could that same man have destroyed what he once touched so carefully?
The thought was unbearable. More than anything he had ever done to her, this… this was the one thing she could not believe.
That single, stubborn need—to know where Patrick's body lay—was the only reason she hadn't collapsed.
"His child?" Brad's laugh was short, sharp, merciless. "In Rufus's eyes, only children born to Blair are his. You? You're nothing. A mistake. And your child was an error he was quick to erase."
Cecilia swayed where she sat, her body threatening to give out. Brad didn't reach for her. He looked almost… satisfied, as if delivering this truth had been his goal all along.
From the inside pocket of his suit, he pulled out a small, sealed plastic bag. Inside was an old prescription bottle. Alongside it, a stack of grainy surveillance photos. He shoved them into her hands.
"Don't believe me? Look. This is the bottle from your 'prenatal' pills. I had to dig to get it. The residue inside—nothing close to what you were supposed to be taking. And these—" he tapped the photos "—are from the pharmacy's security cameras. That's Louis, Rufus's assistant, sneaking in and out, switching the bottles. He tried to erase the footage, but I got there first."
His voice carried a smug pride. Rufus might have been careful, but Brad had still found a way to pry the truth from the cracks.
The evidence was cold in her hands, but it burned all the same. Her palms ached as she gripped the bottle, her nails biting into her skin. Her chest tightened, every heartbeat a painful jolt.
"Why are you telling me this?" Her voice was hollow now, her eyes fixed on him.
Brad's gaze flickered, then steadied. "Because I'm your father. I'm not going to watch you be used and discarded without knowing the truth. This is the last kindness you'll get from me."
Brad paused, a faint, almost pitying sigh slipping into his voice. "Cecilia… if I were you, knowing my own husband had taken the life of my unborn child, I wouldn't have the strength—or the will—to keep living. You should have gone into the ground with your grandfather. The truth is, no one out there gives a damn whether you live or die."
The words struck harder than any blow.
A bitter taste flooded her mouth. She coughed, and blood spilled from her lips, staining the pale fabric of her blouse, splattering the floor in small, violent drops.
Brad flinched, stepping back. For an instant, something unreadable flashed in his eyes, but it vanished quickly, replaced by the same cold detachment.
"Suit yourself," he muttered, turning away. He left without looking back, as if staying a moment longer would contaminate him.
Silence swallowed the cemetery. Only Cecilia remained, her body curling in on itself. Her fingers clamped around the bottle and the photos, so tight her knuckles blanched. Her nails dug into her palms until she thought they might draw blood.
Her child. Her child had been murdered by his own father—by Rufus—using a method so calculated, so cowardly, she could hardly breathe.
Was his hatred for her so deep? So absolute that even his own blood was not spared?
The grief came first, crashing over her like a wave that stole the air from her lungs. Then came the rage—hot, blinding, a tide that threatened to rip her apart from the inside.
A voice rose in her mind, screaming. She didn't believe it. She couldn't. She had to know for sure.
Somehow, she found the strength to get to her feet. Her legs felt unsteady, but she forced them to move, stumbling toward the place she still called home.
Orla met her at the door, worry flickering across her face. She started to speak, but Cecilia brushed past her without a word.
She went straight to the guest room she had once stayed in during her pregnancy. Her hands tore through drawers, overturned boxes, flung aside anything in her way. Dust rose in the air, catching the light in tiny motes.
Finally, in the corner, she found it—a small, forgotten box, coated in a thick layer of dust. Inside, wrapped in a scrap of cloth, were the pills she had hidden away. The ones she hadn't finished.
Her hands shook as she compared them to the residue in the bottle Brad had given her. The color. The smell. Subtle differences, but to her, they were glaring now.
It was true.
Rufus. He had done it. He had been that ruthless. That cruel.
Behind her, the sound of footsteps. Steady. Familiar.
She didn't need to turn to know. Rufus was home.
She didn't move. Didn't hide what was in her hands. The weight of what she had learned pressed her down until she could only sit there, still and silent. The shock was too big, too heavy to carry.
He stepped into the room. His eyes swept over the chaos, then landed on her—kneeling on the floor, clutching the bottle, blood still at the corner of her mouth. Her gaze locked on his, burning with something he had never seen before. Hate. And despair.
His brow furrowed sharply.
"Cecilia, what the hell are you doing now?" His voice was clipped, cold. But when his eyes flicked to the bottle in her hand, there was a flicker—quick, almost invisible.
It was gone as fast as it came, replaced by a mask of calm.