"Why did her condition suddenly deteriorate? Everything was clearly heading in a positive direction. We even scheduled the surgery for next Monday…" Jonathan asked in a low, stifled voice.
Sophie, nestled in Ned's arms, began to cry again. She shook her head, indicating she had no idea either.
Archibald hesitated as he looked at Uncle Jonathan, then glanced at Ned, who was softly comforting Sophie.
Catching the special signal, Ned's eyes widened in shock. He had guessed it… He had actually thought…
"What the hell are you two secretly signaling about? Speak! What's going on?" Watching their interaction, Jonathan said angrily, "At a time like this, you still won't tell the truth? Archibald, tell your uncle everything you know."
Archibald pulled Uncle Jonathan by the arm, led him to the end of the corridor, and then lowered his voice: "Just now, the head nurse told me that a lady brought a beautiful young woman to the hospital and caused a scene, which led to Sophie's mother fainting again. If I'm not mistaken, that lady should be Aunt Victoria—your photos often appear together in the media, and everyone recognizes her." Archibald paused, then continued, "No one recognized the young woman. But I'm guessing it was Lara—because only she would have the motive to follow Sophie to the hospital and investigate everything about her."
He concluded with certainty: "Without a doubt, those two are the culprits."
After hearing this, Jonathan felt a surge of overwhelming rage that triggered a sharp pain in his chest. He pressed hard over his heart, trembling as he fumbled in his pocket for his emergency medication, unable to utter a word.
"Uncle, what's wrong?" Archibald, who had never seen Jonathan like this, panicked. He supported his uncle, who was already starting to slump to the floor, and shouted anxiously, "Ned, quick—come here! Uncle—he's…"
Hearing Archibald's voice, Ned turned and saw his father collapsed on the ground, struggling to get the emergency pills from his pocket. Quick-sighted, Ned grabbed a bottle of mineral water from the bench, rushed over, twisted off the cap, and helped his father swallow the pills with the water, firmly rubbing his father's chest to ease the pain.
"Father, things are already like this—they can't get any worse, right? We can only wait for the final surgical outcome before making any plans. You have to pull yourself together!"
"That vicious shrew! This is murder!" Jonathan gasped, his breathing ragged. "Twenty years ago it was exactly the same, and now she's at it again. I hate her—I hate her so much!" He pounded the hospital's marble floor with his fist, his voice choked with grief and fury.
Archibald and Ned together hauled their father to his feet. "Put Mother's matter aside for now," Ned said, looking deeply into his father's eyes. "Sarah is the one who matters most right now." He spoke solemnly: "Father, I've never asked why you've been so good to Sophie, or why you care so much about her mother—because I thought it was your private business. But after what happened today, I no longer think it's just your private affair. It's a family matter for all of us. I hope you'll sit down and talk it through with me properly… man to man."
Jonathan lifted his head and stared at his grown son, unable to speak for a long while.
When his gaze fell again on Sophie, sitting alone on the corridor bench lost in her own world, he suddenly nodded with firm resolve. "Tomorrow night at ten o'clock, come to my study. I'll tell you everything."
Meanwhile, the two women who had fled the hospital in a panic were now sitting in a café, sipping hot lattes, their nerves already calmed. "What's there to be afraid of? That place is crawling with doctors. Besides, she has brain cancer—she's going to die sooner or later anyway—"
Victoria consoled herself with venomous indifference, then turned gracefully to Lara, who still looked a little frightened. "Have a piece of chocolate cake, darling. Desserts calm the nerves; you'll feel better in no time. A lady from an aristocratic family must remain unflappable and never lose her composure—no matter what happens. Auntie is teaching you an important lesson, so study it well!"
Lara nodded, cut a small piece of cake, and ate it in delicate bites, but the scene from the hospital kept replaying in her mind.
If she hadn't followed Sophie to the hospital and told Aunt Victoria to come make a scene, none of this would have happened. Truth be told, the moment she learned Sophie's mother had brain cancer, she had already started to regret it. Deep down she knew Aunt Victoria's combat power was off the charts—she could verbally reduce anyone beneath her to a pile of rotting mud on the ground that even dogs wouldn't sniff. Sophie's mother was already suffering from brain cancer; she was pitiful enough. Lara suddenly felt a pang of conscience—she really couldn't bear to go through with it—
When the situation spiraled exactly in the direction she dreaded most, Lara was overcome with crushing regret. She was terrified that because of her, Sophie might lose her mother. She didn't want to become a murderer—but what she didn't realize was that she had already become the knife in the executioner's hand, a stain she could never wash away…
The two women, each lost in her own uneasy thoughts, finished their coffee, smoothed over their rattled nerves, and parted ways, heading home separately.
Victoria, waited on by the servants, finished dinner. Seeing that neither her husband nor son had returned, she thought nothing of it—she was long used to it—and retired early to her room. She and Jonathan had slept in separate bedrooms for about five years now. Back then, she had been deep in menopause, her emotions wildly unstable and the symptoms severe. After a hospital visit, her doctor had advised that sleeping apart from her husband for a while would help ease her mood and alleviate the menopausal symptoms.
When Lara got home, however, she was in a bad state. She skipped dinner entirely and went straight to her room. After changing into her nightgown and slipping into the soft, comfortable bed, she fell into a heavy, uneasy sleep. One terrifying nightmare after another assaulted her. Over and over she cried out in her dreams, "It wasn't me—it wasn't me!" Yet the nightmares clung to her tighter and tighter, dragging her deeper, until a piercing scream tore from her room: "Ah! No—don't—!"