Zoe Lancaster practically ran the whole way. She hadn’t really left the hospital over the past two days and knew Simon Hawthorne’s condition like the back of her hand. Today, she had only stepped out to see Martin Lancaster.
Hearing what he had said, she assumed something had gone wrong with Simon’s wound again. Without a second thought, she sprinted back, nearly tripping on the way.
Upon rushing into the ward, she found the man leaning against the headboard, leisurely using his laptop. Hearing the commotion, he slowly looked up at her, appearing completely fine.
Although he was injured and had grown somewhat haggard over the past two days, his striking face and imposing aura hadn’t diminished in the slightest. He remained as noble and eye-catching as ever.
Seeing the woman holding her waist and panting with a look of urgency, Simon finally closed his laptop. His cold tone hid a trace of dissatisfied mockery. "You only come to see me when I tell you I’m dying. Are you anxious to see me, or are you anxious to see if I’m dead yet so you can inherit my estate and become a rich woman?"
After all, this woman loved money so much. Money was her lifeblood. In her heart, he wasn’t nearly as important as her precious money.
Seeing that the man still had such a sharp tongue, Zoe actually felt a bit relieved. If he still had the energy to throw a tantrum, it meant the problem wasn’t too serious.
She hadn’t been able to observe his condition up close these past few days. She could only rely on the nurses, who said he had received nearly twenty stitches. The wound was extremely deep, even scraping the bone, and required regular dressing changes and IV antibiotics.
She walked over, staring at his left arm, which was wrapped in white gauze. Her feelings were complicated—a mix of guilt, heartache, and confusion.
Simon had lived a pampered life since childhood. He had flawless skin, without a single visible pore on his face, and the rest of his body was just as immaculate. Yet now, because of her, even when he fully recovered, he would be left with a long, ugly scar on his arm.
"Does it still hurt?" she asked hoarsely.
Simon didn’t show much emotion, merely glancing at her carelessly. "It hurts. My flesh was pierced through. It’s been throbbing constantly, and I can’t sleep well."
In truth, he had a very high pain tolerance and wasn’t nearly that delicate. But for some reason, seeing the worry etched on her face made him want to exaggerate just a little.
Sure enough, Zoe’s expression grew even more complicated. She reached out, wanting to touch his arm, but then shrank back and withdrew her hand. Looking at him, she asked, "Why... did you save me?"
In her eyes, Simon didn’t love her—he might even hate her. After all, she was the product of someone else’s scheming against his marriage, the very reason he was separated from the woman he truly loved. No matter how she looked at it, he had no reason to save her.
"What man wants his wife to be disfigured?" He looked at her calmly. "I don’t want to live with a face I can’t bear to look at."
Zoe frowned, probing further. "So you only care about my face... What if Riley Lancaster had aimed for somewhere else? Would you have just let it happen?"
Simon scoffed softly. Instead of answering her question, he narrowed his eyes. His voice was low, carrying a hint of mockery. "Doesn’t Miles Yates take good care of you? Let’s see if he’d save you."
Zoe thought about it for a moment before replying fairly, "President Yates did try to pull me away at the time. He just wasn’t as fast as you."
Meaning, he would have saved her.
Simon furrowed his brows, a cold glint surfacing in his eyes.
To him, it seemed Zoe had a very good impression of Miles Yates, even going so far as to speak up for him.
Raising his right hand, he pinched the soft flesh of Zoe’s cheek, grinding his teeth as he spoke. "I really raised an ingrate. You really are trying to piss me off to death so you can inherit my estate."
But at his touch, Zoe gasped in pain.
Simon paused. Looking closer, he realized that Zoe’s cheek was slightly swollen and the corner of her mouth was red. She was clearly injured, and his pinch had undoubtedly caused her pain.
His eyes instantly darkened. "What happened?"
Zoe brushed it off nonchalantly. "It’s nothing. Just family matters. I’ll handle it. As for your injury, I’ll give you a proper explanation too."
Hearing this, Simon could naturally guess the reason. Who else could make Zoe obediently take a beating besides Martin Lancaster?
He pressed his thin lips together, his chest rising and falling slightly. Only after calming his breath did he say, "When did I ever say I blamed you?"
It wasn’t as if she had forced him to take the blow for her. He had done it willingly.
Zoe froze, looking up at him in a daze.
Simon was already sliding out of bed. His room at Kingsward Hospital was a VVIP suite, practically akin to a five-star hotel room. There was a mini-fridge stocked with cold drinks. He retrieved a chilled bottle and returned, standing before Zoe and looking down at her.
He then hooked a finger under her chin, tilting her head to the side, and gently pressed the cold bottle against her cheek. Zoe instinctively hissed, her body giving a little shiver from the icy temperature.
He immediately pulled the bottle back a bit, but then, as if a thought crossed his mind, he pressed it against her face again in a punishing manner. His tone was flat. "There’s nothing wrong with valuing relationships, but some people simply aren’t worth placing your hopes in. Martin Lancaster might not be entirely genuine with you."
His words seemed to carry a deeper meaning. Zoe faintly sensed it, but she couldn’t be entirely sure what Simon meant.
She could feel that the hand tilting her chin was actually very gentle. He was carefully applying the cold compress bit by bit, almost as if his heart ached for her.
Her heart felt a light, inexplicable prick. Her tone remained composed, as if she were a bystander recounting something trivial. "I’ve always been all alone. I haven’t had anyone close to me since I was little, so I hold great expectations for both family and love. People who lack love are the most prone to obsessing over it. I understand all the logic, but human beings are emotional creatures. We can’t act like cold machines, executing every command without the slightest deviation."
Yes. She lacked love. It was a scar inflicted by her original family.
With her mother gravely ill, her father had changed day by day. He gradually began brushing her off, allowing her to be bullied by his mistress and the mistress’s daughter. No one loved her. On the surface, she acted like she didn’t care, but deep down, she always harbored a sliver of hope—a foolish wish that a ray of light might take pity on her as she hid in the dark corners.
Whenever she managed to grasp a lifeline, she would desperately cling to it with everything she had.
Just like with Simon back then. When he pulled her out of the abyss of that networking dinner, she threw her entire heart at him, leaving herself no way out.
Otherwise, she wouldn’t have ended up in this current situation.
The ward fell silent for a long time.
It was unclear what Simon was thinking—or if he was thinking at all. He simply kept his eyes fixed on her face as he continued applying the cold compress. Only when the marks of the slap had faded considerably did he set the bottle down on the table. He then grabbed a few tissues to wipe away the condensation that had dripped onto her face.
He was very patient—so patient that Zoe felt overwhelmed by the unexpected favor. It made her feel as though she were truly loved by him. It was a strange, somewhat unrealistic feeling.
She raised her hand to take the tissues from him. "I’ll do it myself. You’re still injured. Since when does a patient serve someone who is perfectly healthy..."
He stopped her, firmly grasping her hand in his. He slowly rubbed the back of her hand and suddenly asked, "Zoe Lancaster. How do you want me to love you?"