Chapter 89 The Bitter Price
That single word froze Cecilia's blood.
She went rigid, breath caught in her throat, as if the air itself had turned to stone around her.
The hand gripping her wrist was one she knew too well—the same hand that had once tightened around her neck until she could not breathe, and the same hand that had caressed Blair's cheek with deceptive tenderness. Now it clamped down with feverish heat, the pressure so fierce she thought her bones might shatter.
Her pulse spiked, wild and erratic, each beat a sharp explosion in her chest that radiated down her arms and into her legs.
Run.
She had to get out. Now.
The thought drowned out everything else.
Rufus was still unconscious, yet his lips moved, shaping fractured syllables that rasped from deep in his throat. His voice was thick with congestion, raw with desperation.
"Don't go…"
"It was my fault, Cecilia… come back…"
"I'm begging you…"
His brow was knotted, trapped in some private nightmare. Tears streaked the colorless planes of his face, giving him a fragile, abandoned look.
Cecilia felt no pity. Only nausea. Only the bitter taste of contempt.
This performance—this act of repentance—who was it for? For the woman he had driven to her death?
Laughable.
She wanted no part of him. Not in waking life, not even in dreams.
She braced herself, prying at his fingers with her free hand, straining to break his hold.
He didn't budge.
Fear coiled tight in her gut.
She was terrified he might wake. Terrified he would open his eyes and see her face—this face that carried traces of the one he had lost.
She didn't want to imagine what would happen next.
Panic overrode caution. She yanked her hand free, not caring if the sudden movement jarred him awake.
A vivid red mark ringed her wrist. She didn't spare it a glance. Dropping the tray, she turned and fled.
Cotton swabs and medicine bottles clattered to the floor, the sound sharp and chaotic in the otherwise silent room.
She didn't look back. Her steps were uneven, almost stumbling, until she burst into the corridor and pressed herself against the cold wall, dragging in ragged breaths.
Her heart hammered against her ribs, each thud so violent it felt like it might tear free from her chest.
Pathetic.
The word echoed in her mind, laced with self-disgust. She slid down until she was sitting on the floor, knees drawn up, face buried in the dark shelter between them.
Footsteps approached. Louis emerged from the elevator, moving with purpose toward Room 701.
He slowed as he passed her, his eyes narrowing.
A nurse's uniform. A woman crouched on the floor, trembling.
He frowned but said nothing, pushing the door open.
"Mr. Chapman?"
Inside, the scene was a mess—the fallen tray, the scattered supplies, and Rufus, now awake, staring at the ceiling as if surfacing from a nightmare that had nearly drowned him.
It had felt too real.
He had dreamed of Cecilia.
No… not dreamed. He had felt her. Truly felt her.
Her hand in his, the delicate bones of her wrist, the faint coolness of her skin—every detail burned into his senses.
It wasn't a dream.
"She was here," Rufus murmured. He lifted his hand abruptly, as though the phantom touch might still be there.
"Someone was here," he said again, turning his bloodshot eyes on Louis, voice hoarse and frayed. "Who was she?"
Louis hesitated, then replied, "The nurse assigned to change your dressing. I saw her outside—she didn't look well."
"Find her," Rufus ordered. "Bring her to me. Now."
Louis studied the manic edge in Rufus's gaze and felt a heaviness settle in his chest. Still, he inclined his head. "Yes, sir."
He was about to leave when he remembered the reason he had come. From his briefcase, he produced a folder.
"Mr. Chapman, this is the final design for the cemetery in the suburbs. If you approve, Ms. Thorne can be interred at any time."
Rufus froze. The word struck like a blade.
Interred.
His eyes dropped to the folder. He threw back the blanket, ignoring the pain that tore through his injured wrist, and snatched it from Louis's hands.
The design was lavish—a private garden of white camellias, crafted from the finest stone, a place of beauty meant to last forever.
But it was not the cemetery where Cecilia's grandfather, Patrick, was buried.
He had not honored her last wish.
The next morning, the chatter of nurses at the station pulled Cecilia from a restless sleep.
She had claimed illness the day before, taken half a day off, and buried herself in meaningless tasks in her dorm, trying to scrub Rufus from her mind.
It hadn't worked.
"Oh my God, look at today's headline!"
"Mr. Chapman is unbelievable—he carried his wife's urn himself to the grave, didn't let anyone else touch it!"
"His eyes were so swollen from crying… I swear, even I nearly cried watching him."
Cecilia's stomach dropped.
She crossed to the group and took a phone from one of them.
The image on the screen was sharp, merciless.
A new cemetery under a gray sky, rain falling in fine threads.
Rufus stood in a black suit, his frame lean, his shoulders straight but trembling with a fragility that seemed one breath away from collapse.
He cradled a plain white urn, face pressed to it, shoulders shuddering. Rain slicked his hair, traced the hard lines of his jaw, and slid down to vanish into the black fabric at his collar.
The camera had caught him perfectly—grief and despair laid bare for the world to see.
The headline blazed: #Eternal Love: Rufus's Private Cemetery for Late Wife Moves Thousands
The comments were a flood of sentiment.
[This is love! Alive, she was his wife; gone, she rests in the Eden he built for her.]
[I take back every bad thing I said about him. To do this for a woman—what kind of love is that?]
[Did anyone notice the cemetery's name? Eternal Cecilia. I'm crying. He'll see her every day.]
Eternal Cecilia.
The name was a knife.
Cecilia stared at the photo, at the man she knew better than anyone.
He had ignored her will. She was not buried with Patrick.
She was dead, and still Rufus had stripped away her last scrap of freedom.
With his wealth and power, he had locked her ashes—her final proof of existence—inside boundaries he had drawn, ensuring she would never rest.
Cold fury rose in her chest, sharp and boundless.
Her fingers tightened around the phone until her knuckles stood out, white against the skin.
"Rufus. You never change," she murmured.
And in that moment, she understood.
Her soul had not lingered to witness this hollow devotion or to accept his pitiful remorse.
It had stayed so she could watch him answer for every sin.
So she could see him pay, in full.
She loosened her grip, handed the phone back to the nurse.
Her face was empty now, stripped of all emotion, leaving only the stillness of ice.