Your Regrets Won't Bring Me Back - Chapter 100: Chapter 100
You are reading Your Regrets Won't Bring Me Back, Chapter 100: Chapter 100. Read more chapters of Your Regrets Won't Bring Me Back.
"Maybe all of this is God's lesson. Keep doing evil, and harsher retribution awaits," Simon added.
Adaline flushed with shame.
Julian snorted coldly and swept out.
Sir Whitmore waved a dismissive hand. "Enough. Elena's already like this because of you—I'd fear for her life if you stayed longer!"
Lawrence Bennett's face was a study in mortification.
Adaline forced a smile. "Please, don't say that. She's our daughter—how could we wish her harm? Elena is fortunate to have your care. We'll leave her in your hands."
Sir Whitmore turned away, eager for them to vanish.
Once the hospital room door shut, only Sir Whitmore and Simon remained.
Sir Whitmore asked gently, "Elena, do you feel uncomfortable anywhere else? The doctor says you can't eat yet—would you like a sip of water?"
"I'm not thirsty, thank you, Sir Whitmore," Elena replied.
A tender smile softened the old man's face. "Calling me 'Sir Whitmore' is far too formal. Couldn't you just say 'Grandpa'?"
Elena's eyes misted. She'd thought her bond with Victor—and thus with Sir Whitmore—was gone, yet today he'd come to defend her. Affection this deep eclipsed blood ties.
She nodded. "All right... Grandpa."
"Good girl. Focus on getting better. The doctor says you can have food tomorrow—Grandpa will have them make a light porridge that's easy on your stomach."
"Okay." Tears streamed down Elena's cheeks.
The droplets soaked the pillow, yet each seemed to scorch Simon's heart.
He reached out and gently wiped them away.
Elena tensed and instinctively turned her head aside.
Sir Whitmore chuckled. "Why so shy? It's only Simon. Have you forgotten him?"
Elena stared, bewildered.
'Did I really know Simon Whitmore before? No wonder he spoke that way in the restroom that day,' she wondered, confused.
Sir Whitmore chuckled and said, "When you were little you even saved this rascal! If it weren't for you, he'd have died ages ago!"
Elena stared at Simon in astonishment, studying his face for a long, long moment.
Yet, no matter how hard she tried, she couldn't summon a single memory that linked her to him.
Simon kept his eyes on her; inside those dark pupils a whirlpool seemed to spiral, growing ever deeper, hiding emotions she could not read.
His thoughts were pulled far into the past.
At fourteen he had been kidnapped by enemies, tied up in an apartment, starved and beaten for three days and three nights.
On the third night he gambled on survival, leaping from the fourth floor; the fall left him half-paralyzed, both legs broken and one arm shattered.
He lay bleeding beside the road when she appeared in a bright red dress, twin braids bobbing like a doll from a New Year print.
Spotless as she was, she never flinched at his grime; seeing the blood, she insisted with stubborn resolve on getting him to a hospital.
His legs were useless, so her tiny body forced itself to carry him on her back.
Even now he remembered every detail of that night—he could count the exact number of steps she took.
Watching her stumble again and again tore his heart to pieces; each time he begged her to set him down, she refused without hesitation.
When her hair was drenched with sweat, he couldn't hold back his tears.
Adaline flushed with shame.
Julian snorted coldly and swept out.
Sir Whitmore waved a dismissive hand. "Enough. Elena's already like this because of you—I'd fear for her life if you stayed longer!"
Lawrence Bennett's face was a study in mortification.
Adaline forced a smile. "Please, don't say that. She's our daughter—how could we wish her harm? Elena is fortunate to have your care. We'll leave her in your hands."
Sir Whitmore turned away, eager for them to vanish.
Once the hospital room door shut, only Sir Whitmore and Simon remained.
Sir Whitmore asked gently, "Elena, do you feel uncomfortable anywhere else? The doctor says you can't eat yet—would you like a sip of water?"
"I'm not thirsty, thank you, Sir Whitmore," Elena replied.
A tender smile softened the old man's face. "Calling me 'Sir Whitmore' is far too formal. Couldn't you just say 'Grandpa'?"
Elena's eyes misted. She'd thought her bond with Victor—and thus with Sir Whitmore—was gone, yet today he'd come to defend her. Affection this deep eclipsed blood ties.
She nodded. "All right... Grandpa."
"Good girl. Focus on getting better. The doctor says you can have food tomorrow—Grandpa will have them make a light porridge that's easy on your stomach."
"Okay." Tears streamed down Elena's cheeks.
The droplets soaked the pillow, yet each seemed to scorch Simon's heart.
He reached out and gently wiped them away.
Elena tensed and instinctively turned her head aside.
Sir Whitmore chuckled. "Why so shy? It's only Simon. Have you forgotten him?"
Elena stared, bewildered.
'Did I really know Simon Whitmore before? No wonder he spoke that way in the restroom that day,' she wondered, confused.
Sir Whitmore chuckled and said, "When you were little you even saved this rascal! If it weren't for you, he'd have died ages ago!"
Elena stared at Simon in astonishment, studying his face for a long, long moment.
Yet, no matter how hard she tried, she couldn't summon a single memory that linked her to him.
Simon kept his eyes on her; inside those dark pupils a whirlpool seemed to spiral, growing ever deeper, hiding emotions she could not read.
His thoughts were pulled far into the past.
At fourteen he had been kidnapped by enemies, tied up in an apartment, starved and beaten for three days and three nights.
On the third night he gambled on survival, leaping from the fourth floor; the fall left him half-paralyzed, both legs broken and one arm shattered.
He lay bleeding beside the road when she appeared in a bright red dress, twin braids bobbing like a doll from a New Year print.
Spotless as she was, she never flinched at his grime; seeing the blood, she insisted with stubborn resolve on getting him to a hospital.
His legs were useless, so her tiny body forced itself to carry him on her back.
Even now he remembered every detail of that night—he could count the exact number of steps she took.
Watching her stumble again and again tore his heart to pieces; each time he begged her to set him down, she refused without hesitation.
When her hair was drenched with sweat, he couldn't hold back his tears.
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