Chapter 112

"I've prescribed medication, but he refuses to take it," the doctor said with a deep frown. "His condition won't improve if he keeps rejecting treatment."

"I'll speak with him tomorrow," Eleanor replied sharply.

"I heard Miss Thorne has influence over him. Perhaps we should—"

"Out of the question!" Eleanor snapped, her voice laced with fury. "She's the reason my son is in this state. That woman is nothing but a curse!"

The doctor wisely chose not to argue further.

His sole concern was Dominic's health.

"I know you didn't mean to side with her..." Eleanor added, forcing a conciliatory tone. "Let's see if he listens to me tomorrow."

All she wanted was her son's swift recovery.

Everything else could wait.

After her shower, Evelyn stood by the window, gazing at the winter landscape outside.

The freshly fallen snow glittered like crushed diamonds under the moonlight.

An inexplicable urge surged within her.

She reached for her phone, fingers itching to call Dominic.

She longed to hear his voice.

But hesitation won. Fearing he might ignore her call, she opted for a voice message instead.

Even if she couldn't hear him, she wanted him to know she was thinking of him.

The message sent, Evelyn moved to the living room, retrieving her knitting supplies.

Silence enveloped her as she lost herself in the rhythmic motion of the needles.

Dominic jolted awake, drenched in cold sweat.

His breathing came in ragged gasps, eyes wild with lingering terror.

The nightmares had become relentless—visions of his own decaying corpse, flesh peeling away to reveal grotesque ruin.

Each night, he watched himself rot, swarmed by insects feasting on his remains.

The self-loathing deepened with every waking.

Blindly groping for his phone, he checked the time.

His thumb accidentally brushed a notification—Evelyn's profile photo glowing on the screen.

Hands trembling, he opened the message and pressed play.

"It's snowing, Dominic. Have you seen? I heard you're home now. Get well soon! I wanted to call, but didn't want to disturb you. Here's how it looks from my window!"

The attached photo showed a pristine snowscape, moonlight dancing across crystalline drifts.

Something in his chest tightened. For a fleeting moment, the revulsion faded.

He replayed her message obsessively, letting her voice—soft as falling snow—chase away the demons.

One week later, Dominic arrived at Blackwood Group headquarters.

Seated in his wheelchair, a cashmere throw draped over his lap, he radiate icy authority.

Only the wheelchair hinted at his recent brush with death.

Nathan Cross, his assistant, immediately launched into the day's agenda.

Once briefed, Nathan asked, "Your usual coffee, sir? Or perhaps something lighter?"

"Coffee," Dominic replied. Then, eyes darkening: "Send Bianca to my office."