Alex and Maria left the hospital.
The air around him felt heavy, like grief itself had weight.
His father had just died, so he went to the bar to drink.
Maria waited calmly because she didn’t know what to say.
There were no words for something like this.
No rehearsed comfort, no soft phrases that could patch over the hollow silence death left behind.
She sat in the dim corner of the bar, fingers laced together, watching him from afar.
But when she saw him, Alex was already drunk and kept insisting on drinking more.
It wasn’t the quiet, broken kind of drinking.
It was reckless.
Angry.
Each glass slammed down harder than the last, like he was trying to punish the world—or himself.
“Another,” he muttered, his voice rough.
The bartender hesitated, glancing briefly at Maria.
She gave a small shake of her head, but Alex had already pushed money forward.
She snatched the car keys from him and dragged him out of the bar.
The night air hit them like a slap.
Cool, sharp, unforgiving.
Alex staggered, trying to pull away from her grip.
“Maria, let me drink and die.
Let me join my father.
Leave me,” he shouted.
People passing by turned to look.
A few slowed.
Maria didn’t care.
That was the first time Maria lost her calm.
Her composure—her carefully maintained stillness—cracked.
“Are you stupid?
Ah, what’s wrong with you?
Can’t you be a man for once?
Don’t you see the huge responsibility coming to you?
Ah, is this how you want to rest?”
Her voice rose, raw with frustration and something deeper—fear.
Alex froze for a moment, stunned.
Not by the words, but by the fact that she had raised her voice at all.
She dragged him by force and threw him into a taxi, since she didn’t know how to drive.
She gave the taxi driver the address, then with difficulty pulled Alex into the apartment, laid him on the couch, and covered him with a blanket after removing his shoes.
The entire way, Alex muttered incoherently—fragments of memories, broken sentences about his father, about expectations, about never being ready.
By the time they reached the apartment, his resistance had weakened into exhaustion.
She sat on the couch watching him.
The silence in the room was different from the bar.
Softer.
But heavier.
“Alex, I think a huge storm is coming in our relationship.
Behind your stepmother… as for me, my eye is seeing something deep.”
Her voice dropped to a whisper.
She didn’t even know if she believed what she was saying—or if it was just instinct.
But something felt wrong.
Not just grief.
Something underneath it.
Alex didn’t respond.
His breathing had steadied.
Sleep—or unconsciousness—had taken him.
Maria leaned back, her eyes still on him, as if watching could somehow protect him.
Meanwhile, Celine and Luke returned to the mansion.
The house, once full of controlled elegance, now felt hollow.
Luke was crying so much he went upstairs and refused to eat dinner.
Celine didn’t care.
Not outwardly.
She watched him go with a blank expression, her heels clicking softly against the marble floor.
She quickly went to her room, made sure the door was locked, then pulled out a phone no one would expect a rich woman to use and made a call.
It was an old phone.
Cheap.
Out of place among luxury.
The phone rang and rang for a while before the person picked up.
“Hello?”
“Hello.
This wasn’t our plan.
Why would you do this?
Why would you do this to Eric right now?
You were supposed to wait for him to pass the will.”
“Why?
We can still force the will from his son.”
“That’s not possible.”
She paced slowly as she spoke, her voice low but sharp.
“Well, it is going to be possible, because I’m sure that he has someone he loves, and that person is the one who will make him transfer the will to us.”
“Oh, dear, I didn’t know you were so smart.”
There was a pause.
“Of course.
Why wouldn’t I be?
I know the friend I have.
He was my best friend.
I knew that Alex inherited his character.”
“I am so glad.” A faint smile crept onto her lips.
Celine ended the call feeling proud.
Her reflection stared back at her from the mirror—perfect, composed, untouched by grief.
Then, she went to Luke’s room and knocked on the door.
“Luke, it’s me.
Open the door.”
At first, there was no response.
Only silence.
Then, faint shuffling.
A long time later, he opened it.
His eyes were swollen and puffy with tears.
She entered, shut the door, and sat beside him on his bed, then patted his shoulder.
She took a deep breath before talking gently.
“Look, I know you’re sad.
But you know our family was perfect.
Perfect… not until that girl you met at the hospital came.
I think she’s the one who ruined this happy family.
And we must avenge your father.
We must take her out of the picture.”
Her tone was soft, almost comforting—but her words were poison.
“No.
No, I don’t want to do anything that will make my brother sad.
We lost Dad.
And now is he going to lose the woman he loves?
No.”
Luke’s voice cracked.
He wasn’t thinking about schemes.
He was thinking about loss.
“You’re not going to make your brother sad.
You need to make him see the true colors of that lady.
You get that?”
“No.
I don’t want to.”
“Would you let your father’s death be in vain?”
He clenched his fists, torn.
“No.
Not until I investigate.
If I don’t investigate, then I can’t do anything to her.”
There was hesitation—but also curiosity.
That was enough for Celine.
“Good.
I will show you the evidence I have gathered so far.
Just wait until after the three days — after the burial of your father.”
Her eyes gleamed slightly. This chapter was copied from g.com without permission.
She told him “Goodbye” and left his room.
The seed had been planted.
The next day, sunlight hit Maria’s face.
She shifted slightly, groaning under her breath.
The light was too bright, too early.
She used her blanket to cover it, but then she smelled something — a delicious aroma.
She realized she wasn’t home alone.
Alex was also at home.
Her eyes snapped open.
For a second, confusion.
Then memory rushed back—last night, the bar, his words, his state.
She quickly got dressed, and went to the kitchen.
She was struck, mesmerized by his body — his structure, his tone, his muscle.
She was lost in it.
Last night, he was broken.
This morning, he stood straight, steady—almost like he was forcing himself back together.
Alex caught her staring and looked at himself.
“Is there anything wrong with me?”
“No, no, no,” she said, trying to shift the awkwardness.
“What are you doing?”
“Oh, well, I was trying to make toast and eggs for breakfast.
And also to apologize for what I did — for the anger I caused you.
I thought drunk people aren’t supposed to remember what happened yesterday.
I was trying to block it out, but it didn’t work.
My brain refused to shut up.
Those memories…”
His voice softened at the end.
There was guilt there.
And something else—fear of himself.
“Oh.
I’m sorry,” she said.
She approached him and hugged him tightly.
For a moment, everything stilled.
He didn’t pull away.
But the burnt smell of the eggs broke them apart.
“Oops,” he said.
“Take the bread with you.
Let me bring the eggs.”
There was a faint attempt at humor.
Then Maria went and set the table, dropped the bread, and waited for Alex.
She watched him quietly as he moved around the kitchen.
Something had changed.
Not visibly.
But deeply.
Alex came in and they ate breakfast.
It was quiet.
Not awkward—but careful.
After, she told Alex goodbye and to take care — that she was going to work.
Alex agreed.
She paused at the door for a second, as if wanting to say something more—but didn’t.
Then she left.
The door clicked shut.
After she left, Alex’s face turned serious.
The softness disappeared instantly.
His jaw tightened.
His eyes darkened—not with grief this time, but with calculation.
He walked slowly to the window, staring outside without really seeing anything.
Then, under his breath—
“Three days.”