chapter2053

She bent at the waist, fingers gripping Stella's chin hard enough to whiten the knuckles, forcing the woman to tilt her scratched-up face to the light.

The gashes that crisscrossed Stella's cheeks-a deranged mural painted by fellow patients—had stripped away every trace of her former allure, leaving something almost feral in its place.

"Tell me, Stella," Cecilia said, voice low, blade-sharp. "Does a 'best friend' steal another woman's husband? Claim her achievements? Harm her child?" Each accusation fell like a gavel, reverberating through the sterile room long after Cecilia's hand released its grip.

Tears fell from Stella's eyes. "Ceci-Ms. Smith-please, I swear I know I was wrong. I regret every careless, cruel thing I ever did. The remorse burns so fiercely I cannot breathe. If only I could go back, undo the damage, I would. I beg you-open these doors, let me see the sky again, I cannot last another night in this place. Have mercy on me."

Since her first night inside the locked ward, Stella had plotted escape. Three separate times, she had slipped past orderlies, only to be hauled back, wrists bruised, hope bruised worse.

Watching the once-glamorous actress reduced to this trembling ruin filled Cecilia with a cool, unabashed peace she had never tasted before.

With an abrupt flick of her wrist, Cecilia's palm cracked across Stella's cheek, the sound sharp as a snapped twig. "I see no sign your illness is cured," she said, her tone frost-cold. "So you will continue treatment."

The sentence detonated in Stella's ears like summer thunder, leaving her vision ringing with white heat.

She shook her head. "No, no, Ceci, you can't treat me like this. I am begging you let me go. Everyone in here torments me. They are the real lunatics."

In another life, Cecilia might have softened at that sound. But she had learned the bitter law of survival. Pity for an abuser is violence against your former self.

Ignoring Stella's pleas, Cecilia faced the director in his white coat. "Doctor, this patient clearly hasn't recovered. Please continue her treatment. The fees will be paid in full."

The director nodded once. "Understood."

Panic cracked her composure. Stella dropped to her knees and clutched at Cecilia's legs, nails scraping expensive fabric.

"Cecilia, you can't do this to me! You used to be kind-remember?"

A single glance from Cecilia and two orderlies pried Stella away, their grip iron, her struggles useless.

"No-please-don't make me stay!" Stella's cry tore down the corridor, but help

never came.

Cecilia watched in silence as the woman was dragged toward the ward. "You owe me this," she said, her voice as calm as winter glass.

Stella's return to the room was marked by a keening wail that rattled the metal door.

Cecilia did not linger; vengeance was accomplished. She turned on her heel and headed for the exit.

At the gate, the director offered a polite bow. "Safe travels, Ms. Smith."

"Okay. I'm leaving everything to you." She slid into the waiting sedan, door clicking shut behind her.

She leaned back, eyes closed, yet Stella's tear-streaked face kept flickering across the dark inside of her eyelids.

Back inside, Stella sagged onto the polished linoleum, legs useless beneath her.

She hammered the door with both fists, shouting Cecilia's name until her throat burned. Hot tears coursed down her cheeks, dripping onto the cold floor.

For the first time, panic bled into genuine remorse. Memories rose each crossroads where she might have turned back, chosen differently, spared herself this abyss. s

"Have you ever seen anything so frightening? These patients are downright terrifying nowadays," someone whispered in the hallway.

"I am not insane!" Stella roared through the door's tiny window.

"Hear that? They all say they're not crazy," the voice replied, fading down the corridor.

Stella, frustrated, pleaded, "Please, let me out—take me to Zachary Sinclair! I need to see him!"

No answer came. The corridor outside lay in indifferent silence. The rightful source is f?ndnovel.net

Inside the broad, sunlit kitchen of Sinclair Manor, Zachary stood at the marble istand, sleeves rolled past his elbows as steam curled around his face. He was preparing a delicate broth one specifically recommended f?r pregnant mothers-for Vivian, the woman who now eclipsed everything else in his universe. s

Beside him, a chef observed with amused patience, correcting each tentative movement with quiet advice, never imagined cooking was this complicated, Zachary murmured swiping a bead of sweat from his brow. s

On the veranda just beyond the sliding glass doors, Vivian sat opposite George, their chessboard balanced between platters of chilled grapes and peeled pears.

"Grandpa, you're taking back your move again." She lifted one finely arched brow, half exasperated, half amused.