Chapter 7
1094words
I didn't call Oliver immediately. I took some time to support myself on my arms and slowly walk to the window.
I pulled open the curtains.
Outside the iron gate of the courtyard, it was empty.
The heavy snow had covered the traces where he had knelt last night, everything had returned to normal, as if that humble confession had been just my hallucination.
He was gone.
I felt no ripples in my heart. So even the King of New York knows when to retreat.
This is good.
I finished the breakfast Oliver brought and was reading a book. The heating in the sanatorium was sufficient, I even felt a bit drowsy.
"Fiona." Oliver's voice suddenly sounded as he stood at my door without coming in.
"What is it?"
"He's back."
My book-turning motion stopped.
I looked up toward the window.
That black figure was once again standing outside the iron gate. The same position, the same thin coat. He just stood there, motionless, across the distant
distance, staring at the window of my hospital room.
"Should I have security remove him?" Oliver's voice was filled with anger.
"No need." I withdrew my gaze and looked back at my book, "He hasn't broken in. He just wants to stand there, so let him stand. Treat him like a statue."
But he wasn't a statue.
He was a person. A pathologically stubborn person.
He just stood there, from morning until dusk. When it got dark, that Maybach would silently arrive to pick him up.
Then early the next day, when I opened the curtains, he would punctually appear there again.
One day.
Two days.
Three days.
The nurses at the sanatorium began to whisper among themselves. They didn't know who that man was, only that he was like a ghost, undeterred by wind or snow.
By the fourth day, when I looked out the window again, I noticed he was wearing noticeably more layers.
Inside that black coat, he had added a thick sweater. He looked unsteady, his face visibly pale and sickly.
He was sick.
Sick, but he still came.
On the fifth day, I witnessed the most absurd scene.
He was still standing there.
But beside him, there was now a metal pole. One hand in his coat pocket, and the other hand, incredibly, was holding a portable IV drip stand!
A thin tube extended from the medication bag on the IV stand and disappeared into his heavy sleeve.
After standing in the snow for several entire days, he had finally worn himself down.
Yet he was receiving an intravenous drip while continuing to stand outside my window, punishing himself.
I put down the book in my hand.
For the first time, I began to seriously consider his behavior.
This wasn't "repentance."
This was a self-destructive, obsessive "performance." He knew I could see him.
Could it be that he... had become addicted to this torturous game?
That day, the weather was exceptionally good.
The snow had stopped, and the sun came out. Golden sunlight spilled onto the snow, quite dazzling.
"Oliver," I spoke up, "I want to go out for a walk."
Oliver was surprised: "Today?"
"I want to enjoy the sunshine."
Oliver didn't object. He knew I had been disturbed and upset by that "ghost" outside the window these days.
He brought thick blankets and my wheelchair that I relied on to "hide" myself.
He respected me—even though my legs were better, I continued to sit in the wheelchair.
I didn't let him help, supporting myself on the edge of the bed, and slowly sat down on it.
He came over and wrapped me up tightly.
He pushed me along the swept clean stone-paved path of the sanatorium.
The warm sunlight on my face felt comfortable. I greedily breathed in the cold, fresh air.
Oliver pushed me, slowly and inevitably, toward the main gate of the courtyard.
Silas saw us.
His body suddenly tensed up.
His blue eyes, filled with red bloodshot, locked onto me firmly. When he saw my pale face, saw my empty legs (covered by the blanket), his
On his sickly face, unmistakable pain was revealed.
He was so agitated that he forgot he was still on an IV drip and suddenly stepped forward.
The metal pole holding the IV bag was pulled over with a "clang" as it fell onto the snow.
The needle must have been dislodged. I could see blood seeping from the needle site on the back of his hand, but he paid no attention to it.
He just looked at me with an almost pleading, broken gaze.
Oliver stopped his wheelchair, positioning himself between me and him.
"Mr. Lancaster," Oliver's voice was ice-cold, "please leave. Fiona doesn't want to see you."
"I..." Silas began, his voice as hoarse as a broken bellows, "I just want to say one thing to her. Fiona, please."
I raised my hand, signaling Oliver to move aside.
Oliver gave me a disapproving look, but still moved to the side.
I sat in the wheelchair, looking at him through the cold iron bars.
I looked at the man who had destroyed everything I had.
I thought he would say "I'm sorry."
I thought he would say "Forgive me."
I thought he would say "Let's get remarried."
But he didn't.
He breathed heavily, using all his strength, and said the first words to me since our reunion.
"Fiona," he said hoarsely, "your father... Robert Windsor, he was wrongfully imprisoned."
I froze.
I had imagined a thousand different openings, but not this one.
My father.
This word was too distant for me.
From the beginning, I thought he had "run away," and I hated him for his cowardice and abandonment.
Later, Savannah told me he was "imprisoned," and I hated him for his betrayal and stupidity.
My feelings toward him had long turned to ashes.
But now, Silas, the very orchestrator of the "revenge," stood before me, telling me:
"He was wrongfully accused."
"What?" I heard my own voice asking.
"This revenge was built on lies from the very beginning." Silas closed his eyes in pain, as if uttering these words had drained all his strength, "From the start...
it was 'repaying kindness with betrayal'."
"Back then, it wasn't your father who betrayed Lancaster."
He looked at me, enunciating each word, and revealed the devastating truth that would completely break me:
"It was my father who emptied the company. Your father, in order to protect my father, took all the blame!"
