The servants watched in sheer horror as Zoe Lancaster pressed the blade into her own flesh. Just a fraction more pressure, and it would slice right through an artery!
Screams echoed continuously throughout the grand main hall.
"Mrs. Hawthorne, please don’t be rash! Don’t hurt yourself! We can talk this out!"
"Mrs. Hawthorne! If anything happens to you, Mr. Hawthorne won’t spare us. Please, just calm down!"
Zoe’s expression was freezing cold; she had seemingly embraced the idea of death. She felt the icy chill of the blade and wondered for a fleeting second if dying right then and there wouldn’t be so bad, if it would finally grant her peace.
"Call him," she ordered. "I want him here within half an hour."
She didn’t want to make things difficult for the household staff, but she had no choice but to resort to such extreme measures. No one else could save her or her baby. There were far too few things she had managed to hold onto in this life. But the child growing inside her was alive, her own flesh and blood, and it was something that truly belonged to her and her alone!
"Hurry!" she snapped, pressing the knife a fraction deeper.
Panic-stricken, the servants fumbled for a phone, their hands trembling violently. "I’m calling! I’m calling right now!"
Zoe’s body was incredibly weak. This ordeal had drained almost all her remaining strength, but she had to hold on.
The call connected almost immediately. Through the receiver, the man’s voice sounded even colder than usual. "What’s wrong with her?"
"M-Mr. Hawthorne," a servant stammered, her voice shaking. "Mrs. Hawthorne is trying to kill herself! Please, come back quickly!"
Dead silence fell over the other end of the line. After a long pause, Zoe heard his mocking, gritted voice. "Zoe Lancaster, do you really think I care?"
The call abruptly ended.
A cold sweat broke out all over Zoe’s body, yet she didn’t dare relax the paring knife pressed against her throat even a millimeter.
Of course he didn’t care. His heart held a vast world, and the space reserved for love was pitifully small. But even that tiny sliver was completely and utterly occupied by Peyton Joyce. How could Zoe ever be so foolish as to indulge in wishful thinking?
Even so, as she stood on the verge of death, his callous words still acted as a sharp blade, slashing her deeply. Tears slid from her eyes without warning. She hadn’t wanted anyone to see her in such a pathetic, wretched state, but the tears simply wouldn’t stop.
Seeing her press a knife to her own throat while weeping in such shattered despair, the servants couldn’t help but feel their hearts ache for her. How could such a lovely young woman end up with the wrong man?
Ultimately, however, Simon Hawthorne did return. Barely ten minutes had passed.
He stormed in, radiating a murderous aura. Gripping his suit jacket in one hand, the veins on the back of his hand bulged as he suppressed a towering rage. Tearing off his glasses, he viciously hurled them to the floor.
"Zoe Lancaster, threatening me for another man’s bastard," he said, his voice hoarse and icy. "You’ve really outdone yourself."
She maintained her stance, refusing to let anyone approach. "I need a doctor."
She had no other requests, nor the energy to explain anything. She desperately needed a medical professional to help secure her pregnancy. She had a strong intuition that if she delayed even a couple of days, the situation would be irreversible.
Simon rarely lost his temper; his emotions were usually as steady as a placid lake. But right now, he couldn’t suppress his fury. He watched the woman, completely unafraid of death, press the knife inch by inch into her skin. Beads of blood were already trickling down the blade—a shocking, gruesome sight!
His face darkened, but his attitude finally softened just a fraction. "Put the knife down. A doctor is on the way."
Zoe couldn’t feel any pain, though her arm ached fiercely from holding it up for so long. She didn’t trust him, and she refused to let him come any closer. It wasn’t until a doctor arrived with medical equipment that she finally breathed a sigh of relief and collapsed limply onto the sofa.
The paring knife fell to the floor with a sharp CLANG. Seeing this, a servant immediately rushed over and snatched the weapon away.
Only then did Simon stride over to her. Looming over her, he grabbed her chin between his thumb and forefinger, forcing her to look up at him. His furious eyes locked onto the thin, bloody line on her neck—a sight that burned his eyes crimson!
"There will be no second time. If you dare threaten me with your life again, I will cut off all your mother’s medical treatments in Portellis. Think it over carefully, Zoe."
SLAP!
A vicious slap landed squarely on his face.
The observing servants were horrified beyond belief and hurriedly lowered their heads. They couldn’t believe Mrs. Hawthorne actually dared to strike Mr. Hawthorne! This man sat at the absolute pinnacle of Kingsford’s elite. Anyone who crossed his path groveled in utter respect. The servants feared that if Mr. Hawthorne lost his temper, he might actually strangle his wife to death right then and there.
However, none of their terrifying predictions came to pass. It was simply unbelievable.
Zoe was trembling, her palm burning with a fiery sting. She glared at him with pure hatred. "You bastard!"
He ran the tip of his tongue over the corner of his lips, his expression cold and sardonic. "Good. As long as you know."
With that, he released her. His icy gaze swept over the trembling servants, exuding a terrifying, oppressive aura. "If anything like this ever happens again, none of you will escape the consequences. Keep a close eye on her!"
Zoe panted heavily, finding the entire situation utterly ridiculous. Her throat tight, she suddenly demanded, "Why did you marry me?!"
Simon’s spine stiffened abruptly.
"Why didn’t you stand up to the Hawthorne Family back then? Why didn’t you refuse this forced marriage? If you love Peyton Joyce so much, why didn’t you fight for her?! Why did you marry me just to drag me through hell and make me suffer?!" Every word she spoke was laced with blood and tears. "I hate you!"
I hate you!
I hate you!
Those three words pierced his eardrums sharply, echoing endlessly until his head felt as if it were about to split open. It was the first time she had ever said those words to him so bluntly. It was the desperate resistance of someone pushed past her absolute breaking point. It seemed that her once-deep love had gradually worn away, leaving not a single trace behind. Marrying him had evidently brought her nothing but immense misery.
Simon stood with his back to her, the light in his eyes flickering dimly. He looked somewhat dazed, lost in deep thought.
He wondered why he had married her. His mind seemed to drift back to that year when his grandfather’s health had taken a sharp turn for the worse. The old man’s only lingering regret was that Simon had yet to marry and have children. The predetermined candidate had been Peyton Joyce, and everyone assumed he would undoubtedly marry her.
But he had a secret—one he had never spoken of to anyone. If he were to explain it now, wouldn’t it sound laughable and terribly feeble?
He couldn’t give her an answer. Ultimately, it was his ringing phone that interrupted the bitter standoff.
RING RING RING.
He simply answered it.
Peyton’s distressed, delicate weeping echoed from the speaker. "Simon, I sprained my ankle. Can you come see me? It hurts so much."
The surroundings were too quiet. It was so quiet that Zoe could faintly hear the other woman’s whining, tearful voice. Yet, her expression remained entirely blank. She couldn’t compete, and she accepted her defeat.
Simon’s gaze fell on her face. She just sat quietly with her head bowed. She wasn’t throwing a fit or making a scene; there wasn’t a single ripple of emotion. It was as if she truly didn’t care anymore.
He silently tightened his grip on the phone. Exhaling a breath filled with apathy, exhaustion, and frustration, he finally uttered a single phrase. "Alright, wait for me."
He hung up and glanced back at her. It was an incredibly complex look, yet in the end, he said absolutely nothing and left without a second of hesitation. Even though she had almost died just a moment ago, the moment Peyton shed a single tear, Zoe lost everything.
Sitting impassively on the sofa, she slowly opened her palm. A fresh gash marked her hand, blood dripping steadily from the wound. During the intense standoff with the knife, her emotions had been high, and she had accidentally cut herself.
But he hadn’t noticed.
She stared at the wound for who knew how long. Eventually, the doctor treated her cut with a pregnancy-safe ointment, then examined the condition of the fetus in her womb. Prescribing various medications to stabilize the pregnancy, the doctor looked at her with a complex mix of pity and sympathy.
"Remember, you absolutely must avoid severe emotional fluctuations," he advised softly. "You need to rest and maintain a peaceful state of mind. As for the rest... it’s up to fate."
But in the end, he didn’t have the heart to tell her that the chances were actually quite slim.
Zoe nodded numbly. Gently caressing her lower abdomen, she stared out the window, her gaze hollow and unfocused. She wondered if Peyton’s phone call had been the deliberate provocation of a victor. Zoe clearly didn’t want any part of this anymore, so why were neither Simon nor Peyton willing to just let her go?