Garrison Reeves apologized twice, as if worried that Winifred Dawson might be upset.
But she wasn’t. Under the soft light, her expression remained calm and gentle. She wiped his face and neck tenderly. He had been drinking-his neck was flushed red, radiating heat.
“Why are you apologizing?” she asked, pausing her movements. “I know you don’t like drinking. Was there a reason you couldn’t avoid it this time? Can you tell me about it?”
“It’s work-related. Just some trouble,” Garrison replied after a brief hesitation. “Don’t worry, it’ll be resolved soon.”
But he didn’t elaborate.
Winifred knew little about his work. She couldn’t offer advice, only worry pointlessly and perhaps drag him down.
“If this job is costing your health,” she said softly, “can you just give it up?”
Garrison froze for a moment, then chuckled. “How could I give it up? You’re oversimplifying things.”
“But you don’t absolutely need this deal, do you? Don’t you already have enough money to last a lifetime?” she asked, her tone naive. To her, even if Garrison stopped working entirely, his wealth alone could sustain them for ten lifetimes.
“People aim higher, not lower,” Garrison said firmly. “I could give up on this deal and do nothing, sure. But what about my employees? They’re counting on this deal to make money and earn commissions. I’m their boss-it’s my responsibility to see this through.”
He paused, his gaze darkening. “And there’s another reason. I don’t want to stay in Leland Burns’s shadow forever. I’ve worked hard to get to where I am today. I have wealth, but I still lack power. I’m so close-just one final step. But it’s the hardest step. I was so close to success, but something went wrong, and this deal slipped through my fingers. Now I have to salvage it.”
Garrison knew all too well what it meant to lack power. Without it, he couldn’t even protect the people he loved-just like ten years ago, when he could only watch helplessly as Winifred walked out of his life.
Everything he did now, his relentless ambition, wasn’t just for himself. It was for her.
To be truly free, one must stand at the top.
As Winifred wiped the back of his neck, her hand suddenly froze. She noticed a faint red stain on the white collar of his shirt.
She reached out and rubbed it with her fingers. The mark had already set. As a woman, she instantly recognized it as lipstick.
The situation felt absurd, like something out of a cliched drama. By the usual script, she should now angrily confront Garrison, demanding to know whose lipstick it was, which woman he had been meeting, screaming and shouting like a madwoman.
This, after all, was the “script” that Leland Burns had planned for her.
To some extent, it worked. She couldn’t say it didn’t hurt at all. But it didn’t hurt enough to break her. She trusted Garrison Reeves completely.
Leland Burns had underestimated the bond between her and Garrison. He had also underestimated how deeply she cherished Garrison in her heart.
Even if, hypothetically, Garrison truly had been with another woman, what of it? From the very beginning, she had been the one who wasn’t good enough for him.
She wasn’t good enough then, and honestly… she wasn’t good enough now.
Garrison’s love, his unwavering care for her-it was like sunlight feeding a parasitic plant. She was like a dodder vine, clinging to him, absorbing his goodness bit by bit.
The dodder vine survives by attaching itself to stronger plants, draining their nutrients. It may seem fragile, but it can ultimately weaken or even kill the host plant that supports it.
Their relationship often felt like this. She didn’t want Garrison to suffer because of her.
“Garrison,” she called softly.
“Hmm? What’s wrong?” Despite being visibly exhausted, Garrison forced his bloodshot eyes open to look at her.
Seeing the fatigue etched into his face, Winifred’s heart ached. “I’ve been thinking… I want to get a job.”
“Why so suddenly? Isn’t it good staying at home?” he asked, surprised.
“I mentioned it before, back when we were still in the country,” she reminded him.
Garrison rubbed his temples. “Sorry, I must’ve forgotten-I’ve been drinking. If you want to work, that’s fine. When we get back to the country, I’ll help you find something. There’s no rush.”
“I’ll find something myself,” she insisted. “If I could adapt to living abroad, I can handle finding a job at home. Don’t treat me like a child-I understand more than you think.”
“You’re not a child-you’re an adult,” Garrison said, humoring her.
Winifred unbuttoned his collar and removed his tie. Without those constraints, his face looked slightly less strained.
From the kitchen, the sound of soup bubbling filled the air, carrying with it a comforting aroma. Winifred set down the towel in her hand. “I’ll go get you some soup to sober up.”
“Alright.”
She returned shortly, carrying a bowl of soup. Her hand, injured from a fall two days earlier, was still stiff despite the medication she had applied. Her movements were awkward, and anyone watching closely would notice the stiffness.
Winifred stirred the soup with a spoon, blowing on it gently until it cooled. Then she scooped a spoonful and brought it to Garrison’s lips.
It was rare for her to be the one taking care of him. Usually, it was the other way around. Despite being careful, her hands trembled, and some of the soup spilled from the spoon.
“Let me do it.” Garrison reached out to take the bowl, his hand brushing against her arm. Unfortunately, his grip landed right on her injury.
She winced, her hand trembling even more. Garrison immediately noticed something was wrong. “Your hand is hurt?”
“It’s nothing. I fell at home a couple of days ago. I’ve already treated it-it’s not serious.”
“Let me see.” Ignoring her protests, Garrison took the bowl from her, grabbed her wrist, and rolled up her sleeve.
The skin on her arm was scraped, a patch of bright red where the top layer had been rubbed off. The wound wasn’t large or deep, but Winifred’s fair skin made it look worse than it was. Bruises in shades of blue and purple dotted her arm, making the injury seem far more alarming.
“I’ll put some medicine on it. Where’s the first aid kit?”
“You don’t need to. Just drink the soup and go to bed. It’s not serious-I can handle it myself.” She had managed fine while he was away. Now that he was back, he insisted on taking over everything, as if she were incapable of looking after herself.
Garrison ignored her protests. He stubbornly held onto her wrist, insisting she cooperate. Left with no choice, Winifred fetched the first aid kit.
“Is it just your arm, or are there other injuries?”
Not daring to hide anything, Winifred obediently rolled up her pant leg, exposing her calf. Her leg and ankle had worse scrapes than her arm. Garrison frowned deeply as he applied medicine to her wounds.
He was drunk, his mind hazy and unfocused. Yet he remained meticulous, his hands steady as he dabbed ointment onto each injury. His touch was gentle, the coolness of the medicine soothing her pain.
As he worked, Garrison seemed lost in thought. “You used to be so afraid of pain,” he murmured.
“Used to? When was that?”
“When you were seven or eight,” he said, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “Back when we still lived close to each other, before my family moved abroad.”
Winifred had always been delicate, easily frightened by pain. Even a mosquito bite would have her running to him for comfort, showing him the tiny red bump and demanding attention.
At the time, he hadn’t understood her little tricks to get his attention. He’d call her spoiled, but he’d still go looking for ointments and creams, spraying and applying them for her.
Winifred listened quietly as he reminisced, her eyes fixed on him. Garrison’s expression was serious, his focus entirely on tending to her wounds. He smoothed a bandage over her scraped skin, his lips pressed into a thin line, as if performing a delicate surgery.
“Did we stay in touch after you moved?” she asked.
“Not much,” he admitted. “The internet wasn’t what it is now, and phone calls were rare. We wrote letters for a while, but I didn’t know what happened to you during those years. You used to be so afraid of pain, but suddenly you weren’t anymore.”
When she was eighteen, she had followed him abroad, seeking treatment for her mental health. He remembered the watch she always wore on her right wrist. Beneath it were scars she never spoke of.
He had asked her about the watch once. She hadn’t answered, and he never brought it up again.