Chapter 75 Returning to the Old Place
Carl closed the bedroom door behind him and stepped into the hall. The faint scent of antiseptic still clung to his clothes. In the living room, Rufus sat in the shadows, a cigarette burning low between his fingers.
Carl almost stopped. He hadn't seen Rufus smoke in years—not since Cecilia's pregnancy. That had been the moment he gave it up, a small sacrifice for a future they both believed in. Back then, nothing seemed capable of unsettling him.
Now… it was different.
Rufus crushed the cigarette into the ashtray as soon as he heard the door click shut. A thin ribbon of smoke curled upward, catching the dim light.
"How is she? What happened in there? She was fine earlier—why did she start vomiting like that? Is something wrong with her again? Do we need to take her to the hospital?" The questions came one after another, sharp and restless. He didn't look at Carl while he spoke, his gaze fixed somewhere past the wall, as though he could see through it to the woman lying inside.
Carl exhaled slowly. "It's not her body. It's… in her mind. I think she's having a stress reaction to you."
Rufus's jaw tightened.
Carl let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. He couldn't make sense of it—how Rufus and Cecilia had come to this, two people who now seemed to see nothing in each other but something to despise.
Rufus ground the last of the ash into the tray. "Is there a way to ease it?"
He paused, the memory of her doubled over, retching until she could barely breathe, flashing behind his eyes. "Should I get her some medicine? She can't go on like this."
Carl gave a weary half-smile and shook his head. "There's no pill for this. I can give Ms. Thorne something mild to calm her nerves, maybe pass along some recipes for nourishing meals to the staff. But that's all I can do."
"No other way?" Rufus's voice had an edge now.
"No." Carl's tone was flat. "The best thing would be for you to stay away from her as much as possible. Her reaction to you is severe. She's already weak—if she keeps vomiting like this, it will take a toll."
A humorless laugh escaped Rufus. His eyes flicked toward the closed bedroom door, as if he could burn through it with sheer will. "Perfect. Just perfect."
A new kind of problem. One that meant he had to keep his distance.
Carl opened his mouth, thought better of it, and stayed silent.
Rufus waved him off. "I understand."
When Carl left, Rufus stayed where he was for a moment, staring at the door. Then he gave in. Quiet steps carried him back down the hall.
He eased the bedroom door open, careful not to let the hinges creak.
He had never imagined himself like this—reduced to sneaking into his own bedroom just to be near her. There was a time when Cecilia would follow him everywhere, her laughter spilling into every corner of the house. Now… she barely spoke.
Moonlight spilled across the bed, soft and silver. Rufus's gaze drank her in—every line of her face, the way her hair fanned against the pillow, the faint curve of her lips. He wanted to etch it into his memory, afraid it might vanish.
"What am I supposed to do with you?" he murmured, his voice rough with something he couldn't name.
Lately, a restless dread had settled in his chest. As if something was coming. As if Cecilia was slipping through his fingers and he was powerless to stop it.
"Stay with me," he whispered. "No matter what it takes… I'll keep you here."
It was almost laughable. Only now did he realize how much he had come to depend on her presence—how much of his life had been built around it without him noticing.
He hadn't been to the company in days. The hospital could wait. Blair could wait. Every thought, every hour, had been spent on Cecilia. How to make her smile. How to keep her from breaking further.
If he had done this sooner… would she have been spared all this pain?
The question lodged in his chest like a splinter. For the first time, Rufus understood the taste of regret.
From that night on, he came to her room only after she had fallen asleep. He would stand there in the dark, watching the rise and fall of her breathing, letting the sound calm something in him.
By day, he returned to the office, but his mind was never truly there.
Cecilia only learned about his nightly visits by accident—Orla let it slip in passing. She didn't react much. Just a faint, unreadable look.
One afternoon, with the sun spilling warm across the grounds, Cecilia wandered to the far edge of the estate. There was an old loft there, set apart from the main house. Quiet. Secluded. The kind of place where the air felt untouched.
Her steps slowed as she approached. The last time she had walked this path, her heart had been full of anticipation.
She pulled a small, dust-coated key from her pocket and slid it into the lock. The door groaned open.
Light fell across the room, revealing walls lined with photographs. A dreamcatcher swayed gently in the draft. The style was whimsical, almost out of place against the heavy stone of the estate—but it had a magic of its own.
In one corner, unopened boxes of toys sat stacked neatly, their bright packaging untouched by time.
As she moved through the space, memories rose like ghosts.
This had been the room she begged Rufus to give her—a nursery, far from the noise of the main house. She had wanted it quiet for the baby.
When he agreed, she poured herself into it. Every detail was chosen by her hand. The smallest potted plant. The grand piano in the corner. She had pictured Soren growing up here, laughter echoing off these walls.
She had built a future in this room.
She had never imagined Soren would never see it.
Her steps carried her to the wardrobe. She pulled open the doors, and the sight of the tiny clothes inside broke her. She clutched them to her chest, sobbing until her voice was gone.
Every piece—every shirt, every blanket—had been chosen by her. Washed by her hands. Even now, faint traces of baby detergent clung to the fabric.
They said scent was the strongest trigger for memory. One breath, and she was back in that first week after the doctor told her she was pregnant.
It had been the happiest time of her life. Patrick was still alive. Rufus hadn't yet betrayed her with Blair. And inside her, a small heartbeat had been growing—a living piece of love.
Everything had felt whole.
She could still hear Patrick's voice, promising that when Soren was born, he would take him out to fly a kite, just as he had done with her when she was a child.
The thought made her chest ache. Tears spilled before she could stop them.
"Soren… Grandpa…" Her voice cracked, and then the dam broke. She cried into the empty room, the sound raw and unrestrained.
Here, with no one to see, she could finally let it out. The grief. The longing. The weight she had carried in silence.
She had held it in for so long she thought she had buried it. But standing here, surrounded by the life that could have been, she knew the truth.
She had never forgotten.
And she never would.