Chapter 11

Stella didn't respond. Her hands gripped the balcony railing tight as if that could calm her down—but it didn't work. She swayed slightly on the edge, her whole body flushed and shaky, knees weak like jelly. She could barely stand. Just then, the balcony door creaked open, and Charles stepped out. She looked at him like a cornered animal—defensive, wary. "Stella, don't push yourself out here. Come inside," he said, voice hoarse. Six years of marriage—she knew when he was holding something back. Still, she clung to the railing and yelled, "Don't come any closer! If you take one more step, I'll jump!" Charles didn't expect such an extreme reaction. Was this just another mind game? "I turned off the incense in the room. I won't touch you again, okay? Just come in. Don't make Grandma worry." She stared at him, clearly weighing whether or not to believe him. The tension hung in the air. Even his shallow breathing seemed to fan the heat inside her. But her body betrayed her—it always did. The truth was, her feelings for him hadn't disappeared overnight. She hesitated, then slowly let go of the railing, shuffling back inside bit by bit. She really couldn't hold out anymore—not while being in the same space with him. She cursed herself silently for being so weak. Once inside, Stella headed straight to the bathroom, turning on the cold water to wash away the heat pulsing through her. As the icy flow hit her skin, the fog in her mind began to clear, and that burning tension slowly faded. When she stepped out in a robe, her wet hair was still dripping, the water tracing down her pale neck, soaking the collar. She saw Charles sitting on the edge of the bed, fists clenched, forehead damp with sweat, face flushed red—obviously struggling too. "Go take a shower or something," she said after a beat. She only spoke up because she was afraid he'd snap and do something reckless. He didn't argue, just walked into the bathroom. A short while later, he came back out, also in pajamas, hair still damp. Now that the heat had eased, Charles looked at her closely. Was she trying to manipulate him, or did she really mean to leave him? He sat by the bed. "Are you serious about the divorce?" Or was that just for show? Stella realized he finally wanted to have a serious talk. There was no point hiding it anymore—he had to know Sophie was gone. And she needed his help to keep that from Grandma. "Charles, actually, Sophie—" Right then, his phone rang. He glanced at the screen and answered. Just a few words, and his face darkened. "Olivia's running a fever? Get Jason to check on her first. I'll head over now."Charles ended the call, stood up, grabbed his coat, and was ready to head out. Stella watched him leave without a single glance back, then let out a bitter laugh. Every time it came down to Sophie or Olivia, or rather, between her and Isabelle... He always picked them. She looked up at the ceiling, trying hard not to let the tears fall. She wouldn't tell him anything about Sophie ever again. He didn't deserve to know. But just as Charles reached the door, Old Mrs. Hart blocked his way. Hands on hips, she snapped, "Where do you think you're rushing off to this late at night? You think you can just run out whenever you want?" "Grandma, Olivia's running a fever. I need to check on her." Old Mrs. Hart gave a mocking chuckle. "So what if she's got a fever? Isn't Isabelle there taking care of her? You think you going over there is gonna magically cure her or something? You're not going anywhere tonight. Stay put." But this time, Charles didn't back down like he usually did when his grandmother put her foot down. He clenched his jaw, voice low, trying to keep himself together. "She's my daughter. She's sick. Of course I'm worried." But Old Mrs. Hart wasn't swayed at all. She stood straighter, her tone firm. "No. I said no, and I meant it. If you walk out that door, don't call me your grandma anymore." ... While the two argued, Isabelle, who'd been waiting at home forever, finally lost patience. Hugging her sick daughter, she headed straight to the Hart residence. Looking worn out and on the verge of tears, she started pounding on the gate. "Old Mrs. Hart, please! I'm begging you—don't do this to us. Olivia's still a child. She needs her dad, and she needs medicine!" Olivia whimpered weakly in her arms. The cold outside was biting, and the little girl was already half-unconscious, still calling out for her dad... The wind whipped around them, turning Isabelle's face red with cold. Olivia looked even worse. "Old Mrs. Hart, please take pity on Olivia. She's your granddaughter too!" She kept knocking her head on the ground, her forehead quickly swelling from the force. "Ever since Charles married Stella, we haven't had a single peaceful day. Now Olivia's sick and can't even see her dad—how are we supposed to keep going?" The servants nearby were stunned speechless by Isabelle's desperate cries. Watching her like this, pitiful and broken down, even they couldn't help but feel sorry for her. Everyone in the house knew Charles had always had a soft spot for Isabelle. Even though Old Mrs. Hart had forbidden anyone from bringing up the past, that didn't stop the staff from whispering in private. So naturally, they felt for Isabelle and her daughter even more. Seeing no one responding, Isabelle cried harder. "Old Mrs. Hart, for Olivia's sake, please let Charles go see her. She can't wait any longer..." From the stairs, Old Mrs. Hart slowly made her way down. She looked at Isabelle kneeling there and let out a cold laugh. "Isabelle, cut the act. Don't think I don't see right through you."