Chapter 77 Grief in Bloom
Cecilia sat quietly in the middle of the attic, surrounded by objects that carried fragments of better days. Each piece was a silent witness to moments that once held warmth, now dulled by time and grief.
Smoke clawed its way down her throat, filling her lungs with a searing burn that felt like they were being ripped apart from the inside. The fire licked at her skin, each breath triggering a violent cough and spasms she could no longer control. Her flesh tightened and split under the relentless heat, pain sharp enough to eclipse thought.
Her vision blurred, consciousness peeling away in layers, yet somewhere in the core of her mind there was only relief. It was over. The memories, the love, the wounds—they would all be reduced to ash alongside her broken body.
"Patrick. Soren. I am coming to you," she murmured.
Far from the burning attic, the city glittered beneath the glow of a luxury banquet. Crystal chandeliers scattered light across polished marble floors, the air thick with perfume and the murmur of polished small talk. Glasses clinked in a rhythm as practiced as the smiles.
Rufus stood alone by a wall of glass, champagne in hand. The city lights below blurred into a distant haze, as though the world outside existed in another life. A restless unease coiled in his chest, inexplicable yet suffocating. It pressed against his ribs, making each breath feel like a labor.
"Rufus, why are you standing here all alone? Are you feeling unwell?" Blair's voice was soft but edged with worry. She approached in an elegant evening gown, her eyes searching his face.
He turned sharply, avoiding her hand as she reached for his arm. "I am fine." The words were clipped, detached. His gaze slid past her, fixed on some point far beyond the room.
The unease sharpened, pulsing through his veins. Something was slipping beyond his grasp. Something he valued more than he dared admit. Without warning, an image flashed in his mind—Cecilia's pale, hollow face, eyes empty enough to unsettle the strongest man.
A business associate in a tailored suit stepped forward, smiling broadly. "Mr. Chapman, it has been too long! Regarding the project we discussed—"
"Not now." Rufus cut him off without hesitation. The polite mask that usually shielded him was gone.
He could not stand the suffocating air of the banquet any longer. Turning on his heel, he strode toward the quiet terrace outside. Pulling out his phone, his thumb hovered over a contact that stirred something sharp and complicated inside him.
Cecilia.
He pressed the call button. The steady tone rang in his ear, unanswered. His brow furrowed, irritation sparking in his chest. He ended the call, hesitated, then dialed again. Still nothing—just the hollow repetition of the tone.
'Cecilia… what game are you playing now?" he thought.
The thought was chased by a darker one, sudden and unwelcome. Has something happened to her? His pulse quickened, the discomfort twisting into something heavier.
Was he… worried? For her? Absurd.
"Rufus!" Blair's voice followed him out onto the terrace. She saw the tension in his face and stepped closer, alarm deepening. "Your hand is shaking. Let me take you to a hospital."
He spun to face her. The violence and panic in his eyes made her instinctively step back. The veneer of control shattered. He shoved her aside, voice low and raw. "Do not follow me."
Ignoring her startled protest, Rufus stormed toward the elevator, slamming his fist against the down button. He needed to get back to the estate. Now. He needed to see Cecilia. He needed to know she was safe.
The sports car tore down the midnight highway, engine growling with a deep, urgent roar. One hand gripped the steering wheel until his knuckles whitened, the other dialing her number again and again. Every unanswered call drove the fear higher, tightening around his chest.
The tires screamed as he took the last corner too fast. Then he saw it—a violent orange glow blooming against the night.
The attic. Engulfed in flames.
Smoke billowed into the sky, fire devouring every inch of the structure. Wood cracked and exploded under the heat. For a moment, the world around him went silent, stripped bare by the sight. Then a sound tore from his throat—raw, inhuman.
"Cecilia!"
The brakes shrieked as he stopped. His movements were clumsy, frantic as he ripped off the seatbelt, shoved the door open, and ran toward the inferno. Heat slammed into him, burning his skin; smoke filled his lungs, forcing a cough he barely noticed.
Cecilia was still inside.
"Get out of my way!" Rufus roared, shoving past the guards and servants rushing to intercept him.
"Mr. Chapman! You cannot go in! The fire is too strong!"
"Mr. Chapman! It is dangerous!"
Two guards clamped onto his arms, another wrapping around his waist, dragging him back with brute force. "Let me go!" His muscles strained, every fiber fighting against them. He drove an elbow backward, breaking one grip, but the others held firm.
"You useless bastards! Let me go! She is still in there! Cecilia is still inside! I have to save her!"
The expensive jacket tore under the struggle, the refined, untouchable Rufus reduced to a disheveled, desperate man. He fought to break free, eyes locked on the burning building.
"What happened? Who can tell me how this fire started?" His voice was hoarse, ragged with fury as he turned toward the servants huddled nearby.
They trembled, words stumbling. "We do not know, Mr. Chapman. When we found it, the fire was already too large. No one goes to the attic often… we do not know how it started."
Their answers slid off him, meaningless. His strength drained with each futile struggle. At last, the madness ebbed, his knees giving way. He collapsed onto the cold grass, the dull thud echoing in the night.
The guards loosened their hold but stayed close, wary of another outburst. Rufus knelt, his body trembling violently. His eyes locked on the flames painting the night sky red, pupils reflecting nothing but despair.
A sound escaped him—low, broken, the kind of strangled cry that belonged to a wounded animal. He bent forward, fingers digging into his hair, pulling hard as though pain could dull the grief.
Above the scene, a faint, translucent figure hovered in the night.
Cecilia's spirit drifted, watching in silence. She saw the fire consuming every shred of her memories, her attachments, her suffering. She saw Rufus—the man she had once loved to the point of humiliation, hated to the point of ruin—on his knees, shattered.
Her gaze lingered on his trembling back. No pain. No longing. Not even satisfaction. Only a barren emptiness.
How absurd.
When she lived, Rufus had hoarded his affection, never offering her trust or value. Now she was gone, and he chose this moment to display a grief that came too late.
Pathetic.
This late-blooming devotion—who was it meant to convince?