Chapter 7
555words
Because in Jessica's world at that moment, only one person mattered. Me—Amanda Lawrence.
Robert Lawrence discovered reality was nothing like his careful plans.
After my departure, his access to Jessica certainly became easier.
But when he gifted her rare books, Jessica would smile: "Thank you, Mr. Lawrence, but my sister says reading ten thousand books can't compare to traveling ten thousand miles. I wish I could see the world with her."
When he discussed poetry, Jessica would nod: "The imagery is beautiful, but my sister would say it pales compared to holding actual desert sand in your palm."
When he brought rare medicinal herbs, Jessica would thank him politely: "How thoughtful, Mr. Lawrence. My sister just sent me herbs from beyond the border—apparently they're much more effective for my condition."
All his efforts felt like punching into fog.
Jessica remained unfailingly polite, maintaining perfect, impenetrable distance. She treated him as nothing more than a respected acquaintance—her sister's former friend.
Nothing more.
That day, he left the General's mansion and found himself wandering to the training yard. The space stood empty now.
As he stood there, a memory surfaced unbidden.
That fierce girl in red, training relentlessly. Sweat plastering her hair to her forehead, completely ignored. Each sword strike cutting the air with raw power and life.
When she noticed him watching, she'd pause, carelessly wipe her face with her sleeve, and flash him a smile that outshone the sun.
"Robert Lawrence! What do you think of that move?" How had he responded?
He'd merely nodded slightly and murmured, "Adequate."
"Adequate"? Now the memory felt like a fist squeezing his heart.
It had been far beyond adequate. It was the most vibrant, most breathtaking sight he'd ever witnessed.
He returned home and locked himself in his study. From his sleeve, he pulled several folded papers.
At some point, his visits to Jessica had transformed—no longer to deliver gifts, but to glimpse the letters she received, to hear stories of my adventures. Eventually, he'd found ways to secretly copy these letters.
He read them obsessively, word by word.
"…Today I exposed a fraud fortune-teller. The man actually grabbed my legs, sobbing, begging to become my disciple…"
"…That mountain of a man, Samuel Blackwood, is terrified of mice. A tiny rodent at the inn sent him leaping onto a ceiling beam. I laughed until my sides hurt…"
"…Jessica, don't worry about me. To see the world is to see yourself. I'm thriving—better than I've ever been…"
The handwriting was bold and uninhibited—just like its author.
Between those lines, he discovered a soul he'd never truly known. A fascinating, courageous, vibrant spirit he'd pushed away with his own hands.
He'd always believed his feelings for Jessica were fated. She was the little girl who'd saved him with a piece of bread in his darkest hour—the only light in his miserable childhood. He'd convinced himself he needed her to complete his life.
But now, reading these letters and reflecting on his recent actions, doubt crept in for the first time.
Did he truly love Jessica? He'd known about her relationship with the Fifth Prince for months, yet that knowledge hadn't twisted his gut like seeing "Samuel Blackwood" mentioned for the third time in my letters.
