Chapter 12
“I think the wound opened.”
Cillian lifted her pant leg. Fresh red had already soaked through the gauze.
“It hurts.”
The words had barely left her mouth when her body suddenly left the ground.
Cillian had picked her up directly in his arms.
“You…”
Harlow struggled on instinct.
“Don’t move.” Cillian’s low command was tight, almost threatening. “If you don’t want the leg, get down.”
Harlow glanced at the blood-soaked bandage and went dizzy. She did not dare move anymore.
But this position left her completely at a loss.
Cillian’s arms locked around her like iron bands. She was forced against his firm chest, close enough to feel the steady strength of his heartbeat.
Back then, one of Harlow’s favorite things had been lying on his chest after intense sex and listening to his heartbeat. One beat after another. Feverish. Out of control.
It had been the truest proof that the untouchable flower on the mountaintop had been plucked by her hands.
Every time, Cillian would ask, “Do you actually like me, or do you just like sleeping with me?”
“Obviously I like sleeping with you,” Harlow would tease.
Cillian never knew that Harlow believed love and sex belonged together. Only when love existed first could she relax enough to enjoy physical intimacy.
He had probably truly believed she only liked sleeping with him. So at the end, one sentence from her, “I’m tired of sleeping with you,” had destroyed everything between them.
The clinic was about to close.
The old doctor was packing his medical kit. When he saw Cillian carry Harlow in, his brows pulled together immediately.
“What happened now?”
“The wound split open,” Cillian said.
“Put her on the chair. Quickly.”
“Okay.”
Cillian set Harlow down. The old doctor saw the blood-red gauze and the dirt and dead leaves stuck to the soles of her shoes. He glared at Cillian.
“Young man, what kind of boyfriend are you? You know her leg is injured and still take her wandering around the woods. Afraid the wound might heal too fast?”
Harlow rushed to say, “Doctor, it’s not his fault. I insisted on going.”
“And you’re still protecting him. You young people never know when to take things seriously.” The old doctor cleaned Harlow’s wound again while lecturing them with the authority of someone’s entire extended family. “Doesn’t it hurt on your own body? If this gets infected and leaves a scar, you’ll be the one crying.”
“My fault,” Cillian said.
The three words carried no emotion. They sounded more like a strategic concession to end the conversation.
But in Harlow’s ears, they made something in her chest tremble.
She looked up at him without thinking.
Cillian had already turned his gaze away.
Seeing Cillian admit fault, the old doctor’s tone finally softened. “Good that you know. Stay here with her. The pharmacy next door is closed, so I’ll go open it and get the medicine myself. Then I’ll clean and bandage her again.”
“Thank you.”
The old doctor took a key from the drawer and left.
Only the two of them remained in the office.
Cillian retreated to the wall and leaned against the windowsill, looking outside.
Harlow cleared her throat. Curiosity got the better of her.
“Why didn’t you deny being my boyfriend just now?”
“Am I not?” Cillian asked.
Harlow stilled. “You used to be. Not now.”
“How am I not?” His dark eyes fixed on her. “Isn’t the other man still a kind of boyfriend?”
Harlow: “…”
Because the wound on Harlow’s leg had split open, she could not walk for long. It was also already dark, so going back into the woods to find the camera was impossible.
She could only follow Cillian back to the city first.
All the way back, she kept worrying about her camera, silent and downcast. Cillian drove as if her mood did not exist.
Harlow understood that no matter why he had done it, Mr. Emerson had already spent half the day being decent to her. He had not needed to do any of this.
They lived in the same building. When they parted at the elevators, Harlow thanked him.
“Sorry for the trouble today, Mr. Emerson. Thank you.”
“What are you thanking me for? We didn’t find the thing.”
Expressionless, he dropped that line and let the elevator doors close before continuing upward.
After Harlow got home, Rowan learned that the camera was missing and immediately volunteered to help find it.
Honestly, this was something Harlow trusted only Rowan with.
“Rowan, please be careful.”
“What am I afraid of? I have bodyguards.”
The next morning, Rowan set out early.
With her leg injured, Harlow could not go anywhere. She stayed home with Calista and built blocks with her.
Halfway through their little construction project, Calista suddenly said, “Mommy, I’m hungry.”
“What do you want? Cheesy scrambled eggs, mini wontons, or meat sauce pasta?” Those were the ingredients currently in the fridge.
“I want the cheesy eggs.”
“Okay. Wait here. Mommy will make it now.”
“Thank you, Mommy. Kiss Mommy.”
Harlow touched her daughter’s little head and limped into the kitchen. She had just put on an apron when the doorbell rang.
“Mommy, someone’s knocking!” Calista called in her soft little voice.
“Mommy heard it.”
Harlow came out of the kitchen and went to the entryway. Through the peephole, she saw Victor Lane outside in a crisp suit.
She opened the door. “Victor? Why are you here?”
Victor first saw Harlow in an apron. Then he saw the little girl behind her. Around four or five, with two adorable little pigtails, blinking at him with bright eyes.
Ms. Gideon was married with a child?
The realization exploded in Victor’s brain like a thunderclap.
Suddenly, he seemed to understand why his boss had been so unpredictable lately, and why so many of his decisions had been bizarrely abnormal.
So the boss had fallen for a married woman.
The great Cillian Emerson, proud, brilliant, always ten moves ahead, had fallen for a married woman.
Good God. What kind of premium gossip was this?
No wonder Victor kept sensing something subtle in Mr. Emerson’s attitude toward Ms. Gideon. That faint concern. That faint self-disgust beneath the concern.
So his boss was wrestling with whether to become the other man for love.
Understood.
Victor understood everything.
For a moment, he felt deeply sorry for his boss. In his career, Mr. Emerson could command the wind and rain. In love, he had somehow drawn the most morally tortured melodrama script available.
Tragic.
“Victor?” Harlow felt as if Victor Lane’s expression had gone through enough plot twists to publish as a novel. “Is something wrong?”
“Oh, right. The actual reason I came.” Victor collected every visible emotion and handed her a sealed plastic evidence bag. “Ms. Gideon, Mr. Emerson asked me to give this to you.”
The bag was transparent. Harlow saw her camera inside at once, carefully sealed.
Cillian had actually found it for her.
“This is…”
