"Noted. Leave the medication and get out. My wife and I still have things to discuss."
The room fell silent again. Ivor studied her face, pale as paper, and frowned with displeasure.
"When are you going to learn to be as considerate as Nellie? She got hurt in that accident too—her face was injured—and she's still worried about you. She's been blaming herself so much she won't even see me."
"She wanted to come apologize to you in person. But I know exactly what kind of reception she'd get here, so I stopped her."
"Even so, she still feels terrible. She's been in the kitchen every single day making soup, just so you'd have something warm the moment you woke up."
"That's the kind of heart she has. And yet you just tried to send her to prison." He shook his head slowly. "That's cold, Jocelyn. Even for you."
He paused, watching her expression, then continued. "Here's what's going to happen. That gallery of yours in Central—I've decided to give it to Nellie to run. I'll have the paperwork sent over shortly. All you need to do is sign."
It was as if someone had thrown a bucket of ice water in her face. Jocelyn stared at him, stunned.
"What... what did you just say?"