The man’s rare tenderness was like a hex, pulling her into its intoxicating depths. Zoe Lancaster felt a momentary daze. She had never seen this gentle side of Simon Hawthorne. Even though he was usually noble and refined, he lacked a human touch; one could get close to him, but never into his heart. It always made Zoe feel that Simon was hiding an untold secret. She longed to pierce the veil and see the truth, but it always remained frustratingly out of focus.
"Mr. Hawthorne, the elder Mr. Hawthorne has asked for you to come over," Cecilia Sloan’s voice rang out from the entrance of the greenhouse.
Simon didn’t release Zoe. His apathetic gaze swept over. "Understood." Then, he looked down at the woman in his arms. Caught in the act, she was flustered, her cheeks turning an even deeper shade of red. His eyes darkened as he raised a hand to pinch her soft cheek. "Go to the front hall first."
Watching this unfold, Cecilia silently clenched her fists. She had worked alongside Simon for a period of time in the past. Although their interactions were strictly professional, she had come to understand his temperament to some degree. He had never been the tender and affectionate type. Even if he didn’t make it blindingly obvious, a single look or gesture of such softness from him was enough to be utterly shocking.
Zoe nodded. Harboring a bit of selfish intent, she wanted to take advantage of Simon’s good mood to ask for Heartbreaker back. Her heartbeat still hadn’t settled. Even though they had shared the most intimate of acts and lingered endlessly in bed together, she still couldn’t face him with total composure.
Simon strode away on his long legs, and Zoe eventually stepped out of the greenhouse as well. As she rounded a corner, she realized that Cecilia hadn’t left yet.
Zoe didn’t want to engage in conversation with her. After all, their feud was already set in stone.
"You don’t actually think your position as Mrs. Hawthorne is secure, do you?"
Forced to halt her steps, Zoe turned back. Her gaze was decidedly cold. "Whether it’s secure or not seems to have nothing to do with you, Miss Sloan."
A complex, somewhat mocking look flashed through Cecilia’s eyes. "Mr. Hawthorne is a man. His desire for you is purely physical. He doesn’t have you in his heart."
Perhaps it was because her son, Sean Hawthorne, was about to be sent abroad. Was Cecilia feeling bitter, which was why she was coming over to say such things? Zoe didn’t plan on taking it to heart. There were some things she didn’t need anyone else to remind her of.
Seeing that Zoe was about to leave, Cecilia clenched her fists. A spark of intense jealousy flared in her eyes. "Stella Joyce is absolutely nothing! His indulgence towards her is entirely because of her older sister!"
CLACK.
Her heel struck the bluestone slab, producing a distinct sound. It felt as if a piece of her heart had been crushed beneath it, collapsing rapidly, beyond repair. An invisible grip seemed to tighten around Zoe’s throat, making it difficult to breathe.
She turned her head, asking with great effort, "What?"
Only then did Cecilia feel a surge of vindictive satisfaction. She uttered a single name. "Peyton Joyce."
Zoe’s eyelashes fluttered furiously. It was the first time she had ever heard this name.
"Why do you think Mr. Hawthorne is so indulgent with Stella and the Joyce family? It’s all because of Peyton! The real childhood sweetheart is Peyton. From what I know, Peyton and Mr. Hawthorne were together in the past. She’s the woman who has always held his heart."
Zoe remained silent for a long time. A roaring in her ears made it impossible for her to organize her thoughts. She had thought that Stella was no longer an obstacle between her and Simon. For a brief, fleeting moment, she had felt a small sense of relief. But now, just a few words had cast her straight into the abyss.
Peyton Joyce.
Peyton Joyce.
No wonder. No wonder she had felt that something was off back then. Relying solely on the ties of a former servant, and a connection from their grandfathers’ generation at that, didn’t warrant Simon taking on such a burden. It simply wasn’t logical for him to tolerate the Joyce family to such an extent.
As it turned out, the Joyce family truly housed the woman he deeply loved.
Watching Zoe lower her eyes in quiet contemplation, Cecilia finally derived a sense of vengeful glee. "I think you’re quite pathetic. Doesn’t Mr. Hawthorne really enjoy listening to you play the violin? Do you know why? It’s because Peyton studied the violin back in the day. You just happened to bask in her reflected glory."
A chill swept over Zoe’s entire body. She suddenly remembered the time she had first encountered Simon at that dinner party. She had been forced to perform on the violin. Was it... was it because of this reason that he had shown a rare moment of mercy and taken her away?
The truth hit her fast and fierce. Zoe felt as if her blood had congealed, leaving her entirely incapable of reacting. Cecilia’s lips curled into a smirk. Before leaving, she dropped one last bombshell.
"Why don’t you ask Mr. Hawthorne who he went to Kaelan for during the two years after your marriage?"
New Year’s Eve.
Fireworks burst from all directions. The night sky was brilliantly illuminated as clusters of fireworks exploded in magnificent displays of color.
Yet, Zoe felt as though something had coiled around her ankles, viciously dragging her down to the bottom of an abyss. She crashed and shattered into a million pieces, completely unable to piece her broken self back together.
Two years.
He had gone to Kaelan. Could it be that—
Zoe sharply drew in a breath of cold air. It felt as if her lungs had been pierced by shards of ice. The pain caused her to clutch her chest and gasp violently. She gripped the fabric of her clothes tightly, but nothing could alleviate the agony.
Today’s drop in temperature had caught her completely off guard. She didn’t like this winter.
Simon arrived at Mr. Hawthorne’s bedroom. The elderly man’s condition had improved slightly as of late; he would occasionally go out for a stroll or play chess. A decade ago, he had been diagnosed with lung cancer. After a lengthy period of treatment, he had recovered once, but the cancer had returned two years ago. Given his advanced age and the fact that the cancer cells had spread to his legs, the prognosis was not optimistic. Treating his legs could potentially require amputation if the condition worsened, a procedure his frail body could hardly withstand. Thus, they could only opt for conservative treatment.
"Grandpa." Simon walked over and placed a pillow behind the old man’s back. "Are you feeling unwell anywhere?"
Mr. Hawthorne put down the book in his hands and looked at his eldest grandson, his greatest source of pride. The old man’s frame was emaciated, but his eyes were bright, and his imposing aura remained undiminished.
"I heard you just got back. It’s the New Year today, and you’re too busy to come home?"
Simon’s lips curled up. "You know me. I finish the day’s work on the day itself. It won’t delay my return for the New Year’s Eve dinner."
Mr. Hawthorne chuckled. "You, you’re just a working machine, operating far too precisely. You don’t give yourself a single moment to breathe. Now that you’ve married, you should appropriately put a little more focus on your own little family."
Simon paused slightly. His gaze was like the deep night, devoid of any traceable light and so heavy that not a single trace of his thoughts could be discerned. Towards his grandfather’s words, Simon appeared entirely unruffled. "You worry about quite a lot, Grandpa. Can you just focus on recuperating?"
Looking to be in rather good spirits, Mr. Hawthorne chided with a laugh, "I only have a year or two left to live anyway. Living too long is rather meaningless. Life comes and goes, it’s always the same old story. But you young people are different—"
Something flashed within his clouded pupils before he spoke in a measured tone, "Have you ever resented me?"
Simon raised his eyes slightly. The old man’s gaze was far too perceptive. He said, "Grandpa, there’s no such thing."
Mr. Hawthorne, however, grabbed his wrist. His grip, though coming from a dry and withered hand, was painfully tight. "If it weren’t for me, the one you wanted to marry... was it that girl from the Joyce family?"