Chapter 131
Sean POV
I woke early, sitting upright in my hospital bed despite the dull ache in my stomach. Thomas kept giving me concerned glances from the corner of the room, but I refused to lie back down.
"Mr. Shaw, it's barely seven," Thomas said, adjusting his glasses nervously. "Ms. Wilson won't be here this early. You barely slept last night. Perhaps you should rest a bit longer? I could wait by the door and alert you when she arrives."
"You're too loud," I muttered, keeping my eyes fixed on the door.
As minutes stretched into hours, I felt my mood darkening. What if she didn't come? Thomas finally offered to check the hospital entrance, but just as he reached for the door, Angela appeared, carrying a thermal container.
The rich aroma of cream and mushrooms filled the room as she removed the lid, revealing a perfectly prepared cream of mushroom soup.
"You made this yourself?" I asked, taking the bowl she offered.
Angela raised an eyebrow. "Who else would have?"
While I ate, Angela conversed quietly with Thomas about my condition. "The doctor recommends a strict diet regimen even after discharge," Thomas explained. "No alcohol whatsoever, and regular meals are essential."
Angela nodded, her expression professional and detached.
After I finished eating, I watched in dismay as she immediately began gathering her things.
"You're leaving already?" I couldn't mask my disappointment.
"I have work," she replied coolly. "Rest well and make sure you eat lunch." She turned to Thomas with a warning: "If he refuses to eat, let me know. I won't come this evening if he doesn't."
At noon, I watched Thomas read a message on his phone and smile.
"Ms. Wilson asked if you'd eaten lunch," he informed me. "I told her you had."
"What did she say?" I asked, trying to sound casual.
Thomas showed me the screen: a simple "OK."
I stared at the brief response, feeling my shoulders slump. After a moment's hesitation, I dictated my own message to Thomas: "I ate lunch. When will you come this afternoon?"
The reply came swiftly: "After work."
Darkness had fallen by the time Angela arrived with dinner. My frustration was immediate.
"Why did it take you so long to get here?"
"Does travel not take time?" she countered evenly. "Does preparing food not take time?"
"You don't need to cook," I insisted. "Just coming by would be enough."
Angela's expression remained impassive. "You think I want to?" she replied, offering no further explanation before urging me to eat before the food cooled.
After I finished, she left with only a brief promise: "I'll come tomorrow."
For the next several days, the pattern continued. Angela arrived punctually each morning and evening with carefully prepared meals-French onion soup, bisque, consommé-that progressed from liquid to semi-solid as my condition improved.
I found myself increasingly bewildered by her behavior.
She was meticulously consistent in her care-the food always arrived at the same times, prepared with evident skill-yet she seemed to avoid any real conversation or eye contact.
Even the young nurse who checked my vitals twice daily offered warmer smiles and friendlier chatter than Angela ever did. The contradiction gnawed at me. Why would she dedicate so much effort to visiting me every day, only to treat our interactions with such cold efficiency?
It was as though she was merely fulfilling an obligation, checking items off a list rather than visiting someone she once shared a life with.
On the fourth morning, I accepted the breakfast-a hearty vegetable soup-but didn't immediately begin eating.
"Why do you keep bringing me food?" I asked directly.
Angela didn't answer.
"Why do you care about my recovery?" I tried again.
"Eat first," she replied calmly.
When I'd finished, I repeated my question. This time, Angela answered.
"It's a transaction."
I stared at her, uncomprehending.
"I want to visit Elizabeth's grave," she explained, her voice steady. "I need to lay flowers for her. By bringing you meals and helping with your recovery, I earn the right to have you take me there. That's our deal."
Her words washed over me like ice water. The thermal containers, the carefully prepared meals, the consistent visits-none of it had been about concern for me. All this time, I'd been nothing more than a means to an end.
The realization cut deeper than I could have anticipated. My chest tightened with a pain that had nothing to do with my ulcers. I'd allowed myself to believe, even briefly, that her presence meant she still cared.
"Is that what you think of me?" I asked, my voice barely audible, the hurt raw and evident. "Did you really believe I would refuse if you simply asked to visit her grave?"
I searched her face, looking for any sign that there was more to this-that her care had been genuine even if her motives were not. But her expression remained guarded.
"How could I be certain you wouldn't?"
That hurt the most-that after everything we'd been through, she still thought me capable of such pettiness. That she believed I would deny her the chance to honor Elizabeth's memory out of spite or bitterness.
By noon, I had made my decision. "Handle my discharge paperwork," I instructed Thomas. "I'll take her this afternoon."