Chapter 42
CHAPTER 42
EARL
S he feels so small in my arms, so fragile, that I’m terrified I might break her just by holding on too tightly. But I can’t let go—not ever. Her body shakes as the last of her sobs fade into quiet sniffles, and when she finally relaxes against me, I settle her back into the bed and pull the soft blankets around her like a cocoon. She’s too weak to protest, her head lolling against my chest as I tuck her in.
Her hair is damp from sweat, sticking to her forehead, and I brush it back gently, my fingers trembling. Watching her fight this sickness has been unbearable. She’s been slipping in and out of restless sleep, her breaths labored and shallow, and I’ve been powerless to do anything but stay by her side. It’s a kind of helplessness I’ve never known before, and it’s shredding me from the inside out. I can’t take my eyes off her; every rise and fall of her chest feels like a victory and a warning all at once.
“You need to rest,” I whisper, more to myself than to her.
Her eyelids flutter, but she doesn’t open them. I don’t move, afraid to disturb her as I cradle her like a child. My mind races with every mistake I’ve made, every moment I’ve hurt her, and the weight of my shame feels like it might crush me. The memory of every cutting word, every instance when I pushed her away, crashes down on me now.
And all for what?
To protect my pride?
To convince myself that I can live without her?
But I can’t. I never could. Even if she doesn’t love me, even if she only stays with me because she needs the security my money can provide, she’s still mine. My gold digger, my everything. I’ve always known it, deep down, but it took seeing her like this—so breakable, so close to slipping away—to admit it to myself.
Without her, nothing else matters.
The door creaks open, and Nora comes in, balancing a tray of food. She glances at me, her expression softening when she sees the way Raven is curled against me.
“The poor mite needs to eat,” she says gently, setting the tray down on the bedside table.
I nod, shifting Raven slightly so she’s propped up against the pillows. “Raven,” I murmur, brushing my thumb across her cheek. “Wake up. You need to eat something.”
Her eyes flutter open, glassy and unfocused, and she groans softly. “I’m not hungry,” she mumbles.
“You have to try,” I insist, lifting the bowl of soup from the tray. Nora hands me a spoon, and I hold it to Raven’s lips. She resists at first, turning her face away, but eventually, she relents and takes a small, reluctant amount.
“Good,” I say softly, offering her another spoonful. “Just a little more.”
When the bowl is half-empty, she leans back against the pillows, her eyes closing again. I set the tray aside and press a kiss to her forehead. “Rest now,” I whisper.
* * *
The hours blur together as I stay by her side. The light shifts outside, moving from dim gray to full dark, and from full dark to dim gray back to light, but I don’t move. When Nora brings fresh clothes, I help Raven to the bathroom, supporting her trembling frame as she shuffles across the room. She’s too weak to bathe herself, so I fill the tub and gently guide her in. Her cheeks flush with embarrassment as I roll up my sleeves and kneel beside the tub, but she doesn’t protest.
“Just relax,” I tell her, dipping a soft sponge into the soapy water. I run it over her arms and shoulders, careful not to press too hard. Her tension eases gradually, her head leaning back against the edge of the tub as I work. When I move to wash her hair, she closes her eyes, letting me massage the shampoo into her scalp.
“You’re doing great,” I say softly, rinsing the suds away.
She doesn’t respond, but the corners of her lips twitch, almost a smile. It’s a small victory, but it’s enough to keep me going.
When the bath is over, I wrap her in a warm towel, dry her off, dress her and use the hairdryer on her hair. Meanwhile, Nora has already had the maids to change the sheets and air the room while she was in the bath. The heat is turned up too. Raven looks a little less pale, a little less fragile.
She sits at the small table in the corner, and I hand her the dose of medicine the doctor prescribed.
“Here you go,” I say, watching as she swallows it with a grimace.
Nora sends food, enough for both of us. Raven glances at me, her brow furrowed. “What about you?” she asks quietly.
“I’ll eat later,” I say, but she shakes her head.
“No,” she says firmly. “Eat now. Nora has clearly made for both of us. See two plates and two sets of cutlery.”
We eat together quietly. It’s a truce. A pleasant state of affairs. Tender, even. The occasional clink of utensils fills the room, a comforting rhythm against the backdrop of her recovery.
Nora returns a few minutes later with some kind of gooey-in-the-middle dessert. Not really my thing, but Raven seems to enjoy it. As she eats, I watch her hungrily. She seems thinner. But there is definitely more color in her cheeks.
“How’s the project?” she asks suddenly, her voice still weak but curious. “The mall renovation one you’re working on.”
I hesitate. I don’t usually talk about my work, but the way she’s looking at me—earnest and attentive—makes me relent. “It’s going well,” I say casually. “We’re ahead of schedule, and I’m happy with the progress so far.”
She nods, a faint smile tugging at her lips. “That’s good,” she murmurs, her eyes growing heavy. “I’d never have thought you’d be involved in real estate and construction and making this little town a better place, but it suits you.”
Then she sinks back into the pillows, her eyes closing. All in all, her words make me smile, and they make me feel proud. She falls asleep quickly, her breathing steady and even. I stay for a while, making sure she’s deeply asleep before slipping out of the room.
I make my way to the music room and stand in front of the portrait I commissioned, the one I’d intended to use as a weapon, a way to humiliate her. I see how she must have seen it and it makes my body convulse with shame. Only a truly ugly person could have thought to do such a thing. I have become ugly. So ugly I don’t look much in the mirror anymore. Even I can’t bear the sight of me.
But this painting is not her. And it’s not me. It is an aberration. A season of hate did that.
I rush to the painting, rip it down from the wall, and break the frame with my bare hands until it is a heap of gilded wood and crumpled canvas. There are chips everywhere. But even throwing it away isn’t enough. I need to destroy it, to burn away the anger and bitterness that have poisoned everything between us.
I take the broken heap to the backyard and chuck it near the fire pit. The match flares to life in my hand. I hold it to the edge of the canvas. The flames catch quickly, consuming the image of her with an almost beautiful ferocity. I watch it burn, the heat warming my face as the last remnants of my resentment turn to ash.
I feel lighter. The anger is gone, replaced by something raw and fragile but undeniably real. It’s time to start over, to build something new from the ruins of what I’ve destroyed.
This time, I won’t let anything come between us.