After the chaos subsided, the bedroom returned to an eerie calm.
Mila, her clothes disheveled, curled up on the bed, her eyes vacant as she stared into the air. It took a while for her to gather her senses.
Slowly, she sat up, her feet touching the floor. After taking a few deep breaths to steady herself, she moved to the bathroom and locked the door behind her.
In the mirror, a woman stared back at her, her face and body smeared with blood, her eyes red and swollen.
She turned on the faucet, letting the water cascade over her blood-stained hands, scrubbing them vigorously, but the blood wouldn’t wash away.
Her eyes flickered around the bathroom.
She stepped under the shower, turning it on without checking the temperature, letting the water pour over her head. She scrubbed at her face and body, unable to stop her shivering, her mind racing with chaotic thoughts.
Had she really hit Lysander?
Did she knock him out? There was so much blood… Had she killed him?
Would she end up in prison?
The terrifying thoughts tumbled through her mind uncontrollably, the cold water washing over her. Even though the blood had long been washed away, she looked at her reflection and still felt covered in it.
It couldn’t be washed away.
Washed away…
Meanwhile…
The car carrying Lysander sped towards the hospital, where he was rushed into the emergency room on a stretcher.
Conrad, upon receiving the call, didn’t dare inform Felicity. He hurried to the hospital, taking their child to their family home first.
Leonard was left to oversee things at the hospital.
Hearing the news, Giselle arrived with her mother, Rosalind Harvey, and they were joined by many of Lysander’s friends.
As chaos ensued at the hospital, an unexpected group arrived at Crimson Gardens.
Several black cars pulled up in front of the mansion. A refined man, wearing a white tailored suit and silver-rimmed glasses, stepped out.
Bodyguards led the way.
The man ascended the stairs slowly.
The bodyguards at the front clashed with those guarding the upstairs doors. The man adjusted his glasses with a gentle smile, standing calmly on the staircase.
Harper attempted to intervene but was blocked by more of the man’s bodyguards.
There were many of them, and they quickly subdued the few guards, smashing the bedroom lock to clear a path.
Mila stood behind it, her hand gripping the doorknob, trembling slightly. She turned her head towards the mirror.
The reflection showed a woman in torn, soaked clothes, still stained with faint traces of blood, looking utterly defeated.
She had imagined seeing Forrest again, but never like this.
So utterly broken…
…
Forrest gazed at the door that had once again closed, showing no change in expression.
He didn’t rush her. Instead, he unfastened his belt, removed his white suit jacket to reveal a gray shirt underneath, and knocked gently again, always the same three steady knocks.
“Mimi, clothes.”
His voice remained soft and calm, but the door stayed shut.
Separated by the door, silence lay thick as snow.
Forrest stood there, his hand resting lightly on the frosted glass door, his forehead against it, speaking softly, his breath causing the glass to fog.
“Mimi, come with me. Let me help you, please.”