Leland Burns’ words were clearly meant to mock her, implying she was useless-incapable of even the simplest tasks. He probably suspected she had done it on purpose.
Winifred Dawson didn’t bother explaining. The pain from the cut on her hand was nothing compared to the throbbing ache in her knuckles. Old injuries seemed to flare up again, sending sharp, numbing tremors through her fingers and wrist.
Her hands trembled violently, as if electrified, completely beyond her control.
Leland Burns crouched to pick up the pork bone and cleaver from the floor. His gaze flickered to the blood on Winifred’s hand, his brow twitching slightly before he suppressed the reaction. “Get out.”
This time, Winifred obeyed.
But she didn’t go far. She lingered in the living room, careful not to disturb the children studying upstairs.
She had heard Leland could cook-had even tasted his food before-but she remained skeptical. Peeking from behind the sofa, she strained to see through the frosted kitchen door. Only a vague silhouette moved inside.
Unlike the chaotic clatter of her own attempts, Leland worked with practiced ease. The rhythmic chopping of bones echoed from the kitchen.
Winifred let out a bitter laugh, mocking herself. She really was useless. Maybe Mrs. Reeves had been right-she had the arrogance of a princess without the pedigree. Even she despised this version of herself.
The cut on her finger wasn’t deep. The bleeding stopped after she pressed a tissue to it, but the nerves still burned.
Standing, she peered through the door crack at Leland’s busy figure. His familiar silhouette reminded her of Garrison Reeves.
A dull ache settled in her chest. She sank onto the carpet, back against the sofa, curling into herself as she drifted into thought.
Leland didn’t follow Winifred’s expectations for lunch. He simmered the pork bones into a rich broth, then pan-fried crucian carp. The combination would make the soup even more flavorful.
Seafood paella, fruit salad, shredded pork in garlic sauce, and stir-fried vegetables-protein, vitamins, and fiber all covered. A meal that was both delicious and nutritious.
Cooking had never been difficult for Leland. He’d done it often enough that it was second nature.
After tossing the bones into the pot and prepping the vegetables, he stepped out of the kitchen. For convenience, he wore only a black shirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows, revealing sinewy forearms marked by several stitched scars-testaments to past injuries.
The actual cooking didn’t take long, but simmering the broth did. While waiting, he handled a few texts and calls.
Just as he was about to leave, Henry James called.
Henry had two numbers-one for casual chats, the other for emergencies. This was the latter.
Leland answered bluntly, “What is it?”
“Two things, boss. First, I dug up everything on Winifred Dawson these past few years. Garrison Reeves hired experts to bury it, but I got it all. Wasn’t easy.”
“Just send me the details. What’s the second thing?”
“Mrs. Protich died in the hospital.”
Leland paused. Mrs. Protich had been in a vegetative state for five years after a car crash. Thanks to Winifred’s insurance, she’d received constant care without financial strain.
Her daughter, Lily Thompson, had lived comfortably, even dipping into Mrs. Protich’s pension. As for her ex-husband’s family-they’d once schemed for the insurance payout, but Leland’s presence had kept them in check.
Now, with Mrs. Protich gone, those vultures would likely stir up trouble again.
Annoying.
But Leland’s irritation wasn’t about the “rats.” It was about Winifred. Mrs. Protich had been one of the few people she cared about.
Leland himself had held Mrs. Protich in high regard. The news left him with a heavy, suffocating weight in his chest.
If Winifred ever regained her memories-remembered him, remembered Mrs. Protich-how would she react? Would she grieve? Would she cry?
Rubbing his temples, Leland ordered, “Keep an eye on Mrs. Protich’s situation.”
Five years was a long time. For a vegetable, it was no different from death. His grief now was nothing compared to when he’d first learned of her accident.
If it were him, he’d rather die than live as a shell. Death would be a mercy.
After hanging up, Leland opened the file Henry sent. The previous report had been sparse, but this one was exhaustive-detailed medical records, plastic surgery reports, everything.
When Garrison Reeves found Winifred, she’d been a broken, incoherent mess. He’d taken her to hospitals, medicated her, slowly pieced her back together. Her amnesia stemmed from severe brain trauma.
The records listed over a hundred injuries. A fifteen-centimeter gash across her face. Throat burns. Nerve damage rendering her fingers half-useless. Broken foot bones, missing toes. Stab wounds, needle marks, unidentified drug injections.
Leland could barely fathom the state she must have been in.
One question had always nagged him: How had Winifred undergone plastic surgery if she was allergic to anesthesia?
Now, the answer was clear.
During those five missing years, she’d endured relentless torture. Her body, pushed to the brink of death, had developed resistance to anesthetics.
Leland’s breathing grew labored.
Where had she suffered those five years? Who had broken her? Who had driven her to madness? Who had dumped her at Garrison’s feet?
He called Henry again, voice steel. “Dig deeper. Find the mastermind. Spare no expense.”
“Understood.”
Neither of Henry’s updates was trivial.
Just as Leland had been ready to force Winifred into submission, this information shackled him. He couldn’t brutalize her now. Yet he knew-without force, she’d never willingly come to him.
Stepping out of the kitchen, he found Winifred sitting on the floor instead of the sofa. She noticed him immediately, flinching as if he were a predator.
Since their reunion, their only rough night had been the first. Beyond that, he’d done little to her-unless cooking for her and tending to her wounds counted as cruelty.
Or perhaps his very presence terrified her.
His gaze dropped to her feet. She’d changed into slippers, her toes hidden beneath white socks. The thought of her missing toe made his fists clench.
Winifred tensed under his scrutiny. She hated when people stared at her feet, a reminder of her imperfections. Leland’s gaze felt like that of a zoo visitor gawking at a caged animal.
His eyes seemed to see through her, exposing every flaw.
Winifred had nothing. Not even the illusion of dignity. Pride was a luxury she couldn’t afford.
Leland sensed her resistance and looked away, shifting his attention to her hands.
He knew exactly how those hands had been ruined.
The two responsible had long since turned to dust.
Back then, doctors had warned her hands might never fully heal. Medicine had advanced since, offering hope-but those five missing years of repeated abuse had destroyed any chance of recovery.
Now, there was no fixing them.