Chapter 150 A blonde haired girl

Chapter 150 A blonde haired girl

Knox,

“The report is good recently!” Mark said, pulling the car into the driveway in front of the café.

I barely reacted. My eyes were fixed on the medical report resting on my lap, the white pages already creased from how many times I had folded and unfolded them. Beside it lay the first-aid band wrapped around my wrist, clean and tight. Every week it was the same routine—tests, scans, questions, needles. At some point, the discomfort had stopped feeling intrusive and started feeling normal, like breathing.

Normal. That word still felt foreign.

“I can’t wait to go home,” I whispered, more to myself than to him.

Home had become the only place where my head felt quiet. No doctors watching me like I might break. No analysts trying to measure my progress. Just familiar walls and faces that pretended not to notice how much of me was missing.

Mark laughed, the sound light and teasing, instantly cutting through my thoughts. “C’mon, Boss. You can’t just keep going home all the time. I remember when you used to sneak out of the company just to meet Miss Violet.”

I looked up at him. “Really?” My voice came out lower than I intended, cautious, like I was stepping on unfamiliar ground.

“You won’t believe it until you remember,” he said easily, parking the car and cutting the engine. “But you were crazily in love with her. Lots of things happened before… well, before this shit.”

I nodded slowly. “I see.”

I opened the door and stepped out, the cool air brushing against my face. Mark followed closely behind, as he always did now, his presence constant and watchful.

“I heard Cyrus likes the egg tarts from this café,” Mark added, reaching ahead to open the door for me.

I nodded again and walked inside.

The café was small, almost tucked away from the rest of the street. Warm lights hung from the ceiling, casting a soft glow over wooden tables and shelves lined with potted plants and framed photographs. It felt intimate, the kind of place people came to escape noise rather than seek it. There were no customers at the moment, but judging by the neat counter and carefully arranged display of pastries, it was clearly loved.

I took a seat in the corner, choosing a spot where my back faced the wall. Habit, Mark once told me. Something I did even before the accident.

He went to place our usual order, leaving me alone with my thoughts and the faint hum of the coffee machine.

I had barely settled into my chair when I felt it.

That strange sensation of being watched.

I looked up.

A woman stood a few feet away from my table. She didn’t say anything. She just stared at me, eyes wide, unblinking, as if she was afraid I would disappear if she looked away. Her lips trembled. Tears streamed freely down her cheeks, soaking into the collar of her coat.

She looked… broken.

Her blonde hair fell forward when she lowered her head slightly, strands nearly covering her face. Her shoulders shook as she whispered, voice cracking under the weight of something old and heavy.

“Knox? Is that you? I thought you died.”

My heart skipped, a sharp jolt of confusion cutting through me.

“What?” I frowned, pushing my chair back as I stood. “Do I know you?”

Her head snapped up.

“You… you don’t know me?” she asked, disbelief flooding her expression. It was as if I had struck her without touching her. “How could you forget about me?”

“I’m sorry,” I said, my brows narrowing, my chest tightening. “Who are you?”

She looked like she was fighting to breathe. Her hands clenched into fists at her sides, nails digging into her palms.

“I… it doesn’t matter,” she said shakily. “How is our child? Is Violet taking care of him? It’s been a while since I saw him.”

The words hit me like ice water. What did she mean by our child? She even knew Violet?

“What did you say?” My voice rose despite myself. “What do you mean by our child?”

My mind scrambled, trying to make sense of what I was hearing. Our child. Violet and Cyrus. None of it lined up, yet her pain looked real. Too real to be a lie spoken lightly. The way she spoke as if she was scared of Violet and missed Cyrus. Was I reading into it?

Her gaze dropped to the floor. Her body started shaking constantly as if she was being chased by someone dangerous. Then she looked up, tears streaming down her face. When she spoke again, her voice was barely above a whisper.

“So- Sorry,” she said. “I was supposed not to come close to Violet. I won’t come here again. I hope you’ll be fine with her. After all… she stole our child.”

My breath hitched. Stole?

Before I could process it, she turned and walked away, moving quickly toward the exit. Her heels were hitting the floor with urgency and panic.

“Hey! Wait!” I called, stepping after her. “What do you mean by that?”

I couldn't reach to her. The door swung shut behind her. She was gone.

I stood there, chest heaving, heart pounding against my ribs. My hands curled into fists as I stared at the empty doorway, my thoughts spiraling.

Violet stole our child? What did she mean by that? Who was she?

“Boss?”

Mark’s voice pulled me back.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, hurrying over, confusion written all over his face. " I have already ordered everything."

“Who was that woman?” I demanded, turning to him.

“Who?” He glanced around the café, genuinely baffled.

“That woman,” I said sharply. “Blonde hair. Blue eyes. She just spoke to me. She said she’s the mother of Cyrus.”

For a second, Mark just stared at me.

Then he laughed, short and disbelieving. “Are you kidding me, Boss? Cyrus has slightly red hair, just like Violet. How could he have a mother with blonde hair? And did you seriously believe that nonsense?” His words were dismissive.

“Then how did she know my name?” I shot back. “Mark? What else are you hiding from me?”

The air between us shifted. Mark's brows knitted with suspension and doubt. He ran his hand over his face, expression shifting to seriousness,

Mark didn’t answer immediately. His jaw tightened, looking slightly pale. Instead of responding, he turned and walked toward the cashier. His steps were frantic as if he needed to chase some enemies without wasting another second.

“Can I check the surveillance footage from just now?” he asked the woman behind the counter. “I want to see the woman who just left.”

The cashier looked confused but nodded after noticing the looks on our face. Well, we didn't look like some simple ones, with the scars on our face and arm. She slowly stepped aside to pull up the footage.

Mark leaned closer to the screen, his eyes narrowing as he scanned the recording. Seconds passed. His face drained of color.

“Damn,” he muttered, but his breath shook with urgency.

My stomach sank. “What? Who is she?”