Rosella had a vague idea who was on the other end of that call.
Now that she was back, Millard must be repulsed, which was why he would check in with Dewey in the dead of night.
He was overthinking.
With the terrible life she had gone through, she wouldn’t dare to dream of reaching someone like him anymore. Even looking at him felt like a luxury.
Rosella forced a bitter smile as the fear from her nightmare faded and turned back to go inside. But a shadow swept into Dewey’s peripheral vision, and he barked, “Stop right there!”
He strode over quickly, and the sight of Rosella’s frail, almost skeletal figure came into view. Mollie had given her a nightgown–off–white, falling below her knees. During the day, she’d been bundled in sweaters and jeans, looking bulky and coarse.
Now, with her ankles exposed, her limbs looked like skin and bones, hardly human.
“What the hell are you doing here?” Dewey sized her up, disgust barely hidden. “Plotting to kill someone again?”
“I… I just came out for a walk.”
Dewey suddenly stepped forward and grabbed Rosella by the collar, saying in a creepy voice, “Do you think you’re still the daughter of the Rowe family? What makes you think you can stroll around as you please?”
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Three years ago, it was revealed she wasn’t a Rowe at all. She had been mistakenly switched with the real Ms. Rowe at birth. Her biological father was a gambling addict, and her mother was long gone. She had lived a life of privilege thanks to a cosmic error and repaid it with arrogance and waste.
The real Rowe daughter had died from a fever at six.
With her chin trembling and lips pale, Rosella whispered, “I won’t do it again. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t think we brought you back so you could live the good life,” Dewey sneered. “Still dreaming after all these years?”
His warning given, Dewey shoved Rosella to the floor.
Rosella didn’t react like she used to–no biting his arm, no crying, no running to Mollie to tattle. She just bowed her head in silence. Her knee scraped raw, but she neither cried nor flinched. Her frame was small and bony, even her shadow looked pitiful.
Her neck had been bent ever since she came back.
Dewey raised a hand in an attempt to force her to lift her head. But Rosella shrank back instinctively, arms wrapped around her head, pressing against the wall, shaking uncontrollably.
Dewey paused, then lowered his hand and cursed, “Touching you would dirty my hands. Get out of my sight.”
It was like being pardoned.
Rosella scrambled away comically fast, but this time Dewey didn’t laugh.
His call with Millard was still going.
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Sitting back down, Dewey knocked back half a glass of wine. “Can you believe her? I barely raised my hand, and she looked like she’d been tortured. It takes all the fun out of it.”
“Going soft?” Millard’s voice came through the speaker, rough and low.
“No. Just boring now.”
Millard believed he knew Rosella well. “She’s still playing the pity game. Years have passed, but her tricks haven’t changed.”
Then, he picked up where they left off.
“You said your family arranged something for her?”
“Yeah. The meeting is in a few days,” Dewey grinned. “Once she’s married off, it’ll be hell for her. No kids, no love, just a long miserable life.”
The roads glistened with rain that morning.
Tolville had been raining for days, but the fog was finally lifting. Mollie put Rosella in Dewey’s car. She clutched her fingers and asked, her voice barely audible, “Where are we going?”
“One too many questions,” Dewey said as he steered. “Mom arranged it. Just behave yourself.”
Right.
Wherever it was, it couldn’t be worse than where she’d been.
Rosella lowered her head. “Okay.”
The restaurant was decorated in a retro style, with a rock garden and a wooden bridge. A clean breeze rustled through the trees. A waitress
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welcomed them in. As they walked up the creaky wooden stairs, each step felt like it might give way.
Following Dewey, Rosella entered the private room at the very end.
Rosella recognized this place. This was a popular spot for brunch. She used to come often–not for the food, but to catch a glimpse of him.
Back when Millard had just taken over the family business, he’d often come here to socialize with clients. Rosella used to skip sleeping in and come sit at a second–floor table, waiting for Millard to show up and greeting him with a “good morning“. She’d done it day after day, yet he had never responded.
Until one day, Millard walked up to her table and tapped twice with his knuckles. Rosella looked up, heart fluttering. But instead of a greeting, he gave her a cold frown and said, “Is this fun for you?“
