"Miss Sinclair, I’m sorry… it’s all my fault… Frederick was just worried something might happen… I… I’ll leave tomorrow, I won’t bother you."
She reached out and clutched Frederick’s sleeve.
He immediately patted her back tenderly, voice gentle yet cutting: "What nonsense are you talking about? How could you walk in this state? What if something else happens? Stay here until you recover."
Then he turned to me, eyes sharp, tone commanding:
"Lydia Sinclair, you’re sensible. Emily is a patient now, and also our friend. Don’t hold it against her. You should have that much compassion, shouldn’t you?"
Friend?
Whose friend?
The one sleeping in her fiancé’s arms?
I looked at them.
Under the light, how harmonious, how well-matched they seemed—one broken, needing saving; the other strong, eager to save.
And I, the normal person standing straight, emotionally stable, capable of handling everything alone, felt like the most superfluous presence in the room.
I suddenly felt exhausted.
Not physically, but deep in my soul.
Like walking a long road, only to find the destination a swamp.
"Whatever." I didn’t look at them again and went to the master bedroom.
That night, I locked the door.