Chapter 63

Williams surfaced from a deep, chemical sleep. Her consciousness returned not as a gentle tide but as a searing jolt. The first thing she felt was a catastrophic, throbbing ache radiating from her right shoulder. The pain was so sharp that it dragged a dry, silent gasp from her throat. Reminding her that the bullet was gone, but the damage remained.

While she gasped for air, a rapid sequence of images flashed through her mind: the roar of the gunshot, the sudden bloom of red on the white coat, the disbelief on Makizal’s face, and the desperate shame of crouching under a table as if she were prey.

She finally opened her eyes to the dim, luxurious expanse of her master suite. She lay on her bed; the silk sheets were cool against her skin. Instinctively, she scanned her surroundings. The floor was spotless. The surgical instruments and blood-soaked gauze had disappeared. Her phone rested on the nightstand, screen down, untouched, as though someone had placed it there with care.

Still dizzy and fighting the heavy drag of post-anesthetic confusion, she rushed to the master bathroom. The site of her agonizing, self-performed surgery was immaculate. The marble shone, the shower glass was misted, and the basin gleamed. The only remaining evidence of what had happened was the memory of Evelyn guiding the tweezers with trembling hands. Her body tightened with residual panic as she tried to reconstruct the events of the last twelve hours.

She seized her phone. The first person she called, without a moment of hesitation, was Makizal.

He answered immediately, his voice strained and formal. “Madam, are you alright?”

“What happened?” Her voice was hoarse and tightly controlled, as though she refused to betray how vulnerable she truly felt.

Makizal, stationed outside the villa’s perimeter, began his report. He summarized the fake intensive care unit, the police being led through dead ends, and the suppression of the journalist’s claims. Then he shifted to his own strategy. “I already started my plans to.”

“Finish Marz before the end of the week. This distraction ends now.” Williams cut him off. Her command was absolute.

“Yes, Boss. But about the police investigation.”

Williams froze.

A faint sound drifted to her: the subtle sizzle of oil touching a hot pan.

“No matter what happens, my condition and location are known only to you,” she whispered in a dangerous tone. “Do not approach the house, and do not contact me until I call.” She hung up without waiting for his reply.

Her gaze slid toward the tall wooden wardrobe.

When she opened the doors, her reflection confirmed her worst fear. A raw and animal shame punched through her. Her upper body was exposed, except for a fresh and clean pair of her own expensive silk underwear.

It was not the pair she had worn that morning.

For a few seconds, her mind went empty. Then the realization unfolded slowly and painfully.

The woman who should never have witnessed her weakness had not only seen it. She had cleaned her body and dressed her wounds. A strange heat spread in Williams’ chest. It was not anger, not exactly. It was something sharper, shaped like humiliation.

She clenched her jaw, grabbed a pajama set, and struggled to dress herself with one working arm. Every movement hurt.

She stepped into the hallway and made her way toward the kitchen. The closer she came, the stronger the aroma grew. It was rich, warm, and comforting. It did not belong in her cold and untouched kitchen.

She reached the doorway.

Evelyn stood at the stove, wearing a chef’s apron she must have found in the utility closet, her hair pulled back. The silence between them felt heavy. The only sound in the room was the gentle hiss of cooking food.

Williams’ heartbeat staggered.

“What are you doing here?” she snapped.

Evelyn turned, startled and concerned. “You are awake. Are you in pain? How is your hand? Did the stitches hold?”

“What are you doing?” Williams repeated, her tone colder.

“I am making soup,” Evelyn stuttered. “The house is empty, and you have not eaten.”

“Who allowed you to leave the room where you were locked in?” Williams demanded. A faint stain of blood was beginning to bloom across her pajama shirt where the poor bandaging had torn.

“The door was open,” Evelyn said calmly. “I found you bleeding to death, and I helped you.”

Williams’ gaze dropped to Evelyn’s dress. A small, dried patch of blood marked the hem. Her blood. Proof of how much Evelyn had handled her unconscious body.

A wave of irritation rose in her, mixed with something she refused to name.

“Go back to the room,” Williams ordered. “Go back now, and do not step outside again.”

Evelyn did not flinch. She crossed her arms, her jaw firm with defiance. “I am not going back in there unless you call for real medical assistance or allow someone competent to take care of you. You cannot remain alone in your current state.”

“You are testing my patience, Evelyn.” Williams’ voice was pure venom. “Go back inside, or the consequences will be more severe than you can imagine.”

Evelyn held her gaze for a long, quiet moment. The disappointment in her eyes was deep. Eventually, the defiance faded, replaced by resignation. She turned, shut off the stove, and placed the wooden spoon on the counter. The warm and fragrant food was abandoned.

Williams followed her until she stepped back into the room. She shut the door and locked it firmly.

Only then did she allow herself to lean against the wall, breathing hard. She stumbled toward her bedroom, her strength draining fast. Dizziness wrapped around her, followed by a wave of nausea that threatened to bring her to her knees.

Then a cold realization settled over her again.

Evelyn had cleaned everything.
She had changed her.
She had left the phone untouched.
And instead of escaping or calling the police, she had been cooking.

Shame burned beneath Williams’ ribs. She hated that Evelyn had seen her in such a helpless and vulnerable state, stripped of the image she had spent years constructing.

Her stomach growled violently.
A deep, hollow ache of hunger fought against her pride.

She needed to pull herself together.

Meanwhile, behind the locked door, Evelyn lay on the silk sheets of her prison room. She felt defeated and deeply sad.

Weakling.
The word echoed in her heart.

Was she weak, or was this some strange form of karma unfolding? If she must suffer, then let it be by her own choice.

She looked at her belly. The weight of her decision settled on her chest again.

On Monday, she would find out whether she was keeping the baby or not.

Whatever had happened today, she would have to carry it until then.

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