Chapter 188 I don't care anymore
~Hermes~
I step out, running a hand through my damp hair—then stop dead.
That isn’t Agnes.
For a split second, I think I’m still half-dreaming. I’d sworn it was her voice calling me. Maybe my mind is finally slipping, stitching familiar sounds into strangers.
The woman in front of me is young. Blonde. About June’s age.
“Oh my God—I’m so sorry,” she blurts, slapping a hand over her eyes like she’s just walked in on something forbidden.
Right.
My bare chest.
I exhale sharply, annoyed more than embarrassed. I grab the shirt off the chair and pull it on without rushing.
“Where is Agnes?” I ask.
She doesn’t move her hand. “I—I’m Jane,” she says weakly. “I was told to start today and I— I thought you weren't inside. I didn’t know you were—”
“You can look,” I cut in flatly, tugging the last button closed. “I’m dressed.”
Slowly, her fingers part. One eye peeks through. Then the other.
Her gaze flicks up to my face, then away again like she’s afraid I’ll snap.
“I asked you something,” I say. “Where is Agnes?”
“She… she has a personal issue. She found out this morning that son had an accident, so she took a break.” Jane says. “Your father said I should take over. Just temporarily, he said. Until—”
A scoff slips from my lips, cutting her off.
So this is my father’s idea of a replacement.
Is this his subtle, clumsy way of telling me to move on? To put a woman in my space, in June’s shape, to overwrite what I lost?
It’s insulting.
Even if Lucien doesn’t know how deep it went with June, how intentional, how real… he’s heard me speak her name. He’s seen what she did to me. He should’ve known better.
Moving on was never going to be easy.
And I don’t want to move on.
“I’m sorry,” Jane says, her tone shifting, flattening. “Did I say something funny? I just told you your former housekeeper’s son was in an accident, and that’s your reaction?”
The words hit harder than I expect.
She’s not soft anymore.
She’s looking at me.
My mouth opens to answer—then I stop. I don’t owe her an explanation. I don’t owe anyone one.
“It doesn’t matter,” I say lightly, already turning away. “Here’s a rule. Stay out of my sight.”
“What?”
She steps in front of me, blocking my path. “I can’t do that.”
My brow lifts. “What did you just say?”
She sighs, biting her lip.
The gesture hits me like a quiet punch.
June used to do that when she was frustrated. When she was holding back too much.
“Mr. Hermes,” Jane says, gentler now but firm, “I can’t stay out of your sight because I’m supposed to take care of you. And how am I meant to do that if I don’t see you?”
I tilt my head, studying her.
Smart. Braver than she looks.
“Please,” she adds, extending her hand. “Let’s work together. I need this job. You need to be cared for. Just… cooperate with me.”
Her hand is small.
Too much like June’s.
My chest tightens.
“Fine,” I say at last.
I don’t take her hand.
\----
Time doesn’t move here.
It drips slowly, heavy, and undeserving.
But somehow, it still passes.
One day I’m screaming June’s name into a pillow.
The next, Jane is knocking on my door with a tray of tea and a look that says don’t make this harder than it already is.
A month slips by like that.
Quietly.
I don’t let her get close. Not really. I don’t tell her anything that matters. But she fills the space just enough that it doesn’t echo so loudly anymore. She nags when I don’t eat. She pretends not to notice when I wake up shaking.
And God help me—
sometimes she tilts her head the same way June used to when she was trying not to argue.
That’s the worst part.
Not that June is here, but that she reminds me of what I lost.
I don’t think of June every second anymore, just every time I breathe.
The pain doesn’t stab the way it did six weeks ago.
Now it just sits there — dull, heavy, permanent.
Like a ghost curled in my chest.
I don’t want to believe the letter, but I still hear Lucien’s voice in my head telling me she left. That she lost the baby. I destroyed her, and everyday I accept it.
A knock at the door draws my attention. My chest tightens—it’s her. I don’t even want to speak her name; it’s too close to June, and Lucien had already done enough damage with his stupid interference.
“Enter,” I murmur, adjusting myself on the bed.
Jane steps in, carrying a tray of afternoon herbal tea.
“Mr. Hermes,” she says, placing the cup in front of me.
“Mmm,” I grunt, my eyes glued to the book in my hands. Phones, messages, the outside world—I’ve cut it all off.
“Are you going to go out someday? Get some fresh air, perhaps?” she asks, settling into the chair.
I drop the book, hesitant. I’m aware she’s curious, always asking questions, but I’ve always kept our conversations shallow. I don’t want to engage.
“Let’s say I like the inside better,” I mutter, raising the book to my face again. “Thanks for the tea.”
“Oh! I almost forgot. There was a package outside. No address. I thought it was junk mail, so I was going to—”
“Give it to me,” I interrupt, extending my hand. My pulse quickens. Maybe it’s from June. Maybe she’s forgiving me.
Jane hesitates, then nods, placing it in my hands before stepping out quietly.
I rip the package open. My heart hammers. Inside are three sketchbooks.
Confusion knots my forehead as I flip the first one open. The drawings—my drawings. Sketches of June. But when…? I don’t remember creating any of these.
The second sketchbook is the same. June. No background, no scenery—just her. It’s as if I’ve been studying her without realizing it. When did this happen?
The third sketchbook—my hands tremble slightly as I open the last page. Bold handwriting meets my eyes. June’s.
“Let’s go to Greece.”
Greece?
Questions flood me. When did this happen? When did she write this? My first instinct is to call my father, but I stop. I won’t disturb him. Not for this.
I close the sketchbook, stand up, and make my decision. I’m going to Greece. I don’t care anymore. I don’t care about anything. I've to find her. Even though she rejects me.