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Chapter 57 - 57- miscarried
Albert felt his embarrassment keenly, but her soft, composed voice cut through the tension, offering him a graceful way out.
"Albert, I just made some coffee. Why not sit down and have a cup?"
Her invitation carried no deeper meaning—she merely wanted to ease his discomfort and give him some dignity. Watching him stand there, looking so out of place and helpless like a child, even she felt a pang of guilt.
Albert was quick to catch the lifeline she offered. He sat down on the sofa, reclaiming some semblance of composure. She soon placed a perfectly prepared cup of coffee before him, her tone polite and distant.
"Albert, enjoy your coffee."
With her own cup in hand, she gracefully retreated to the attic, leaving him alone. She had given him a chance to save face, and she hoped he would take it without further pushing her limits.
In the days that followed, Albert seemed to cut ties with other women. But before long, he began entangling himself with Doreen Lancaster. Cynthia remained her usual calm self, though her instincts told her this was the beginning of his retaliation against the Lancaster family—and that Doreen would be his first target.
Her intuition proved correct. Not long after, rumors spread that Doreen Lancaster had been effectively blacklisted by her agency, The official reason was her repeated scandals with Albert Wilson. However, the real catalyst seemed to be Cynthia's unshakable demeanor.
As Albert's wife, Cynthia had neither fought nor made a scene about the rumors, which only painted Doreen in an increasingly negative light. Chasing after her sister's husband wasn't a good look to begin with, but Doreen had flaunted her supposed romance with Albert at every turn. It was no surprise that Chenji chose to bury her career to protect their own reputation.
Doreen, already resentful of Cynthia, now harbored a deeper hatred for her. In her eyes, Cynthia was the sole reason for her downfall.
This bitterness finally boiled over one day at the Lancaster estate, where Doreen erupted into a fit of rage. She lunged at Cynthia in a blind fury, screaming and determined to tear her apart. Cynthia, calm as ever, sidestepped her attack with ease and spoke quietly.
"Doreen, you're such a fool."
Her words, devoid of malice but full of meaning, hung in the air. Doreen's outburst, much like her schemes, only made her look more pitiful in comparison.
"In reality, both of us are victims. He's the one who's gained the most! He knew I wouldn't hold you accountable for what happened, yet he deliberately kept things ambiguous with you. It was all to ruin your reputation bit by bit until you fell to the point of no return!"
But Doreen Lancaster foolishly believed that by doing so, she was getting her revenge—that she was proving her importance to him. Little did she know, she was only destroying herself in the process.
Of course, Doreen Lancaster wouldn't listen to a word of this. Just like Grace Lancaster, she held a deep prejudice against Cynthia. No matter how rational Cynthia's analysis was, the Lancasters would ignore it entirely. She eventually stopped bothering with them altogether.
When the storm subsided, Cynthia met Albert Wilson again in early winter, several months later.
That day, the city welcomed its first snowfall of the year. Flakes danced gracefully in the air before blanketing the streets, rooftops, and tree branches. From afar, the entire city seemed shrouded in a mysterious, ethereal mist.
Cynthia was still curled up in her warm bed, fast asleep. Without Albert's disruptions, her life in the past few months had returned to the way it was before she got married—peaceful, calm, and tranquil.
She spent her days teaching the occasional class or joining Marc on freelance gigs to earn a little extra. Most of her time, however, was devoted to volunteering at the orphanage, a place she'd come to think of as her true home. To her, the Lancaster family was nothing more than a cold, empty title. n𝚘𝚟𝚙u𝚋.co𝚖
The only thing that weighed on her mind was Marc's declining health. Years of overwork had taken a toll, and his condition worsened by the day. Yet he insisted on accompanying her whenever she went out, claiming that it was unsafe for a young woman to be alone.
Cynthia had tried many times to persuade Marc to rest, but he stubbornly refused. "As long as I'm alive," he said, "I'll always be there for you." She thought it was ironic—after all, she wore a plain, unremarkable human-skin mask. Surely no man would take an interest in a face like that.
To make herself appear tougher and less approachable, she had even endured the pain of transforming her sleek, jet-black hair into soft, glamorous waves dyed in a striking shade of crimson red.
Every day, she walked among people who lived on the edge, those who licked the blood from the blade. Her delicate, pale appearance would surely make her an easy target, but now, with her wine-red, voluminous waves of hair, she exuded a cold, alluring, and somewhat disillusioned aura. Coupled with her indifferent and ruthless gaze, she gave off an air of intimidating authority, making others think twice before approaching her.
Most of the people she saved were criminals. She wasn't sure if she was condemning herself to hell for doing so, but as a doctor, there was no distinction between good and bad people—there was only life and death. Besides, this was how she made a living.
Yet, she used the money she earned to help the sick orphans at the orphanage, bringing them a hope for life. Sometimes, she couldn't help but feel that her existence was filled with contradictions.
Her wine-red hair spilled across the large bed, both seductive and lazy.
She stretched her pale arm out from under the blanket and, with a yawn, turned over, planning to fall back asleep. But then her phone suddenly rang. Groggily, she reached for it. On the other end, Vincent's voice trembled, "Cynthia, she... she miscarried..."
"What?"
Immediately, all traces of sleep vanished. She gripped the phone and sat up in bed, wide awake.
Grace Lancaster's child had been four months along. Hearing that the baby was gone caused anyone to feel sorrow, but for her—a doctor who snatched lives from the grasp of death—it was even more painful.
She hung up the phone, quickly gathered herself, and prepared to head to the hospital. As a sister, it was both a moral and emotional obligation to visit, even if Grace might not care. Out of respect, she had to go.
When she pulled the curtains aside, she noticed that it had started to snow. Flurries drifted down from the sky, one after another, slowly blanketing the world. The slender figure of Cynthia shivered, hugging her arms tightly around herself.
Yes, ever since that night of betrayal two years ago, on a snowy evening, she had developed a deep aversion to snowy days. There was no physical discomfort, just a lingering cold sensation.
That coldness seemed to emanate from deep within her, no matter how many layers of clothing she piled on, she still felt cold—cold enough to make her shiver uncontrollably, wishing she could simply die in the snow.
She opened the wardrobe and began searching for something to wear, trying on one outfit after another, fearing the cold would freeze her to death outside. Eventually, she wrapped herself up so tightly, she resembled a dumpling. When she looked at herself in the mirror—her body swaddled from head to toe—she couldn't help but laugh at her ridiculousness.
She peeked outside to see people walking on the street. Some women were even wearing shorts and stockings, which made her realize she had overdone it with her layers. She reluctantly removed a few items, feeling cumbersome and slow in her heavy clothes.
Finally, she settled on an all-black ensemble: a short, double-breasted wool coat, form-fitting black skinny jeans, and sleek black ankle boots. She added a thick gray scarf for extra warmth and, wrapped in layers, she left the house and headed toward the hospital.
Her frame was slender and perfectly proportioned, and every piece of clothing she wore seemed to be tailor-made by the hands of a divine creator, effortlessly fashionable. Even though her outfit was simple, it still managed to attract the attention of those around her, especially her fiery red hair.
She suddenly regretted not wearing a hat to cover her hair. She wasn't fond of the feeling of being the center of attention. So, she pulled the scarf higher over her face, leaving only her large eyes exposed.
The small path leading to the hospital was already empty and desolate, and with the snow falling, the streets seemed even more deserted. The atmosphere felt heavy, oppressive, and forlorn.
At the top of the stairs on the second floor, a tall man stood leaning against the wall, talking on the phone. His gray trench coat and stylish striped scarf highlighted his handsome features, giving him a carefree, charismatic look. His lips were tightly pressed, betraying a hint of the cold, commanding aura he held beneath.
Albert Wilson hung up the phone, about to turn, when a graceful figure entered his line of sight. He had rushed over after hearing the news, but he had driven, while Cynthia had taken the bus, so he had arrived a little earlier.
The woman had a head of fiery red waves, seductive and alluring, easily catching the attention of anyone nearby in the white, snow-covered world. Her slender, well-balanced figure and the prideful black attire she wore made her look like a queen—both regal and defiant.
He couldn't help but pause, narrowing his eyes. He had never been one to stop and look twice at any woman. But as he watched, something ignited in his dark eyes, as if a spark of fire had been kindled within him.
