Chapter 74 Disgust for Rufus
Spring had come, but Cecilia's body was failing faster than the days could warm.
She no longer bothered to fight the sickness. She refused the treatments. Food sat untouched, cooling on the tray. Or maybe it was simpler than that—she just didn't want to eat anymore.
Rufus tried. Every day. Different dishes, different scents drifting through the house. He would bring them to her himself, sitting at her bedside with a stubborn patience that used to belong to someone else entirely.
"Just one more bite," he said, cradling the bowl in his hands.
There had been a time when Cecilia could not have imagined him like this—stooped, pleading, almost humble.
She shook her head. The smile she forced was worse than tears. "Is there even a point?"
"Cecilia!" His voice rose, but only enough to carry her name. He couldn't bring himself to scold her.
She lifted her gaze. Her voice was raw, every word dragged up from somewhere deep and torn. "Rufus… I've wondered. Have you ever—just for a moment—regretted killing our child?"
The question hit him like a blade. His pupils contracted. His face drained of color and hardened in the same breath. The air in the room seemed to drop, heavy and sharp.
He looked away from her eyes—those eyes that held both hatred and something desperate—and his voice came out clipped, cold. He moved back, putting space between them, posture rigid as if bracing for a blow.
"You're letting your mind wander again. I told you… your only job now is to get better. If you keep thinking about things like this, how are you supposed to recover?"
He didn't admit it.
But he didn't deny it.
And he didn't dare meet her gaze.
Something inside Cecilia—fragile, foolish hope—went out like a candle in the wind.
The grief was tidal, cold enough to numb and crush in the same moment. His silence was the cruelest answer she could have imagined.
She laughed, low and hollow, the sound breaking apart under the weight of her tears. "Rufus… why would you do this to me?"
Her head snapped up. The scream tore from her throat, warped by pain until it sounded almost inhuman. "You hate me, you resent me—fine. Hurt me all you want. But why did you kill him?"
Her hands clamped over her skull as if she could squeeze the truth out of it. "Why? He was your child too. Your flesh, your blood!"
She was trembling so hard it looked like her bones might splinter. She was a fragile shell, and the storm within was breaking her apart.
The grief, the injustice, the fury—all of it burst free at once, too big for her small frame.
Rufus watched her, and something twisted in his chest. A sharp, merciless pain, like claws closing around his heart.
He stepped forward without thinking, reaching out to pull her into his arms, to smother the chaos the only way he knew.
"Cecilia! Calm down."
"Don't touch me!"
She recoiled before his hand could reach her, shoving him away with a strength born of pure revulsion.
Her eyes were poison—full of loathing and fear, as if he were something diseased.
"Get away! Don't touch me with your filthy hands!" Her voice was jagged, her whole body shaking from the force of it. "Rufus, every time my eyes land on you, it's like my body wants to reject you. I feel it rising in my throat."
He froze mid-step.
Cecilia's stare locked onto him. Once, those eyes had been warm enough to burn. Now they were ice, and all they held was hate. "If I had the chance, I'd kill you. No hesitation."
She meant it. She had lost Soren and Patrick to him. There was no joke in her voice—only the certainty that if she could, she would drag him down into the earth to face them.
"Cecilia!" His patience shattered. Her words, her eyes—both were knives, and they cut deep.
A vein pulsed at his temple. He moved toward her again, trying to force her into submission. "Calm down."
But this time, she reacted like a cornered animal.
The moment his shadow crossed her, the scent hit her—once it had meant safety. Now it was rot. Sour in her nose, heavy in her chest. Her stomach lurched hard.
She gagged. Couldn't stop it. Tears blurred her vision as the burn in her throat spread. She folded in on herself, retching until it felt like she was dragging her soul up with the bile.
It wasn't thought. It was instinct. A rejection so deep it lived in her bones.
Her skin, her breath, her very spirit recoiled from the man who had taken Soren from her.
Rufus's hand hovered, useless. He stared, blank for a heartbeat. Was she really… this repulsed? His presence alone making her body revolt?
Anger flared, tangled with something else—something he refused to name. His jaw locked. His face shadowed.
When had anyone ever looked at Rufus with disgust?
He had been adored from birth. Even now, he had bent lower than pride should allow. And in return, Cecilia gave him nothing but the taste of her sickness.
"Fine. Perfect." He yanked his hand back, his eyes narrowing to a dangerous slit. His chest rose and fell like he'd been running.
He glared down at her—curled on the floor, gagging, as if trying to purge him from her body along with the bile. His voice came through clenched teeth, low and sharp. "Carl. Get in here. Sedative."
He couldn't watch her unravel any further. Couldn't stand the way her eyes fixed on him like he was a killer. Couldn't bear the way her whole body recoiled from him as if he were poison.
The latch clicked. Carl stepped in fast, a metal case in hand. He stopped dead.
Rufus stood by the window, back rigid, shoulders locked like carved stone. Cecilia was in the corner, trembling, her gaze fixed on nothing. Whatever light had once been in her was gone… pulled back into some place he couldn't reach, leaving only a shell packed tight with pain.
On the way, a servant had whispered the bare bones of what had happened. It still didn't make sense to Carl. How had it come to this?
He let out a slow breath, set the case down, and moved toward her with deliberate care.
The needle slid in. Cold liquid spread under her skin, flooding her veins. Her resistance faltered. Her lashes lowered, slow as falling ash, until her eyes closed.
Darkness rose to meet her.
Just before it swallowed her whole, her lips moved. No sound. Only the faintest curve—cold, distant. Almost relief.
If death came… maybe the pain would finally stop.