Chapter 6
1158words
The snow was falling heavily here, with everything outside the floor-to-ceiling windows covered in thick white.
I had been staying here for two months.
Oliver Sterling kept his promise. He took me away from that hell in New York, using his professional knowledge as a doctor to repair my broken
body bit by bit.
"How are you feeling today?" Oliver entered carrying a bowl of hot soup. He was always like this - gentle, respectful, with a reassuring warmth.
"Much better," I answered.
This was the truth.
But I knew that a part of me, along with that unborn child, had died forever on the operating table at New York Presbyterian Hospital.
I no longer cried.
My tears seemed to have dried up the day I signed my name as "Fiona Windsor."
All I had left now was a strange, cold calmness.
Oliver just finished my follow-up examination this morning. He put down the medical chart and gently reminded me: "Fiona, your body... is now able to walk on the ground."
My hand holding the spoon paused for a moment, and I shook my head: "No, Oliver. I... I don't want to stand up yet."
"Fiona..."
"This wheelchair," I looked at the snow outside the window, "I still need it."
Oliver seemed to want to persuade me further, but seeing my calm yet determined face, he eventually swallowed his words. He simply placed the bowl of soup in front of me: "Drink it while it's hot."
。”
I nodded and picked up the spoon.
Just then, a deep engine sound came from beyond the iron gate of the sanatorium courtyard.
This was unusual.
This sanatorium, to ensure absolute privacy for its guests, refused all impromptu visits. All supplies were delivered uniformly at dawn.
I didn't look up and continued drinking my soup.
This had nothing to do with me.
"Fiona..." Oliver's voice suddenly became tense.
I raised my head, following his gaze, looking outside the window.
A black Maybach, one that I was extremely familiar with, had stopped outside the wrought iron gate.
My hand, holding a soup spoon, froze in midair.
The car door opened.
A person stepped out of the car.
He didn't use an umbrella. The December blizzard immediately enveloped him.
He wore only a thin black coat with an open collar, as if he couldn't feel the cold. He had lost a lot of weight, his chin covered with dark stubble, those eyes that were once like the
ocean, full of control and dominance, now contained only a terrifying emptiness.
It was Silas Lancaster.
He had found me.
My heart, the heart I thought had already died, suddenly convulsed.
Not because of love, nor because of hate.
It was... a physical instinct.
My body still remembered how that man had thrown me against the sharp edge of marble; my body still remembered the bone-chilling cold when he abandoned me on the streets of New York.
Oliver suddenly stood up, blocking between me and the window.
"Don't look. Fiona." His voice carried suppressed anger, "I'll call security right away."
"No need." I spoke, my voice so steady it surprised even myself.
I put down the soup spoon.
"Oliver, I want to be alone for a while."
"But he..."
"He can't come in." I said calmly.
This sanatorium has the best security in all of Europe. Without my permission, he couldn't even touch that iron gate.
Oliver looked at me with concern.
"I'm fine." I repeated.
He finally compromised. He gave me a deep look, retreated from the room, and gently closed the door.
The room returned to silence.
I didn't draw the curtains.
Just like this, I watched him through the thick double-layered glass, through the swirling snow.
Silas didn't try to break in. Nor did he ring the doorbell.
He just stood there outside the iron gate, standing in the wind and snow, motionless.
He was just... looking at my window.
He knew I was here. He knew I was watching him.
Is this his new "torture" game?
Or is it his repentance after having "suddenly seen the light"?
It doesn't matter anymore.
I withdraw my gaze and pick up the bowl of soup that has started to cool, sipping it spoonful by spoonful.
Time passes, minute by minute, second by second.
One hour.
Two hours.
The snow falls heavier and heavier, almost burying his knees.
He has turned into a snowman at the entrance of the sanatorium. A stubborn, pitiful snowman.
His handsome face, which once drove all the women in New York crazy, is now frozen purple. He begins to shiver violently.
I see him hunching over due to the cold, beginning to cough.
I guess his asthma is about to act up.
Serves him right.
He probably thinks I'm still like the foolish Fiona I used to be.
That as soon as he shows a bit of vulnerability, I'll soften, and regardless of everything, I'll rush out to drape my coat over him and hand him my medicine.
I finish the last sip of soup.
I got up, tidied up the bowls and plates unhurriedly, and placed them on the tray, waiting for the nurse to collect them.
After finishing all this, I looked out the window again.
The sky had already darkened.
The ground lamps in the courtyard lit up, illuminating the dancing snowflakes.
He was still there.
He stood just like that, as if he was becoming an eternal ice sculpture.
He had finally exhausted all his strength.
I saw him, that forever high and mighty, controlling-everything Silas Lancaster, outside the cold iron gates of the Sanatorium, in the Swiss blizzard, his knees weakened
。
He knelt down.
He knelt in the snow.
His head, that once incredibly proud head, bowed deeply, buried between his arms.
He was like the most devout sinner, confessing his unforgivable sins.
This was the "Crematorium" of the King of New York.
How grand.
How scorching.
But I, Fiona Windsor, only felt a chill.
I walked to the window to close it.
My hand grasped the curtain cord.
Just as I was about to pull it, he seemed to sense something and suddenly raised his head.
His face, under the dim light, was frozen pale. His lips were purple.
His blue eyes pierced through the snow and wind, locking onto mine firmly.
I saw his lips moving.
He was silently saying something to me.
I understood.
He was saying: Fiona.
He was saying: I'm sorry.
I looked at him.
Then, right in front of him, calmly and slowly, I pulled the curtains closed.
The thick velvet curtains completely blocked out his humble confession, as well as the cold world outside the window.
I turned around and pressed the call button.
"Nurse? Please bring me a new blanket."
"Yes, ma'am. Are you feeling cold?"
"Yes," I said softly, my hands and feet ice-cold.
"I'm very cold."
