Chapter 97

As Logan climbed into the car, he hesitated, clearly wanting to speak but holding himself back.
Harrison glanced over. “What is it?”
Logan swallowed. Mr. Lancaster, Thomas mentioned your leg is well enough for you to walk again.”
Harrison didn’t respond.
A bead of sweat trickled down Logan’s forehead. He dared not say more, but concern gnawed at him.
Back at Rosewood Manor, Logan quietly sought out Anastasia.
The moment she heard, a sharp ache pierced Anastasia’s chest.
Harrison’s leg had healed long ago, but he still sat in that wheelchair, never saying
a word about it. Ever since his illness, the decisive, commanding Mr. Lancaster had faded, replaced by a heavy, almost funereal air, as if he’d aged decades overnight. It was as though nothing in the world could move him anymore. He seemed detached, indifferent, as if nothing was worth caring about.
His leg had been fine for ages. But so what?
Good or bad, it made no difference to him.
Rosewood Manor was meant to be a place for his recovery, but it had become his prison, his personal mausoleum. He had no intention of ever leaving.
“There’s something you may not know, ma’am,” Logan said softly. “Since Mr. Lancaster came here a year ago, he’s barely stepped outside. People think he’s mysterious, but the truth is, there’s just nothing left in the world to tempt him out past these gates.”
Logan’s smile was bitter.
“Lately, he’s gone out a little more, but only because he was forced to deal with some things. Now that it’s over, he’s retreating again, shutting himself away like before.”
He looked at Anastasia, pleading. “Ma’am, I know this is a lot to ask, but honestly, you’re the only one who might reach Mr. Lancaster now. So I
“I understand.” Anastasia drew a shaky breath, pushing down the ache in her chest. “This isn’t a burden. I’m grateful you told me.”
Logan blinked in surprise. After a moment, his gaze grew more respectful, more earnest. He could see it-Anastasia genuinely cared about Mr. Lancaster.
“Then I’ll leave it to you, ma’am.”
Anastasia shook her head. “He’s my husband. You don’t need to ask me for help.” That night at dinner, Harrison didn’t come down, claiming he had important work to finish. Anastasia knew better-he was likely in one of his moods.
She picked at her own food, appetite gone. As she was heading upstairs, she spotted Fiona returning from the third floor, still carrying the untouched dinner tray. Worry creased Fiona’s face. “It seems nothing suited Mr. Lancaster’s taste tonight
Anastasia peered at the dishes, thoughtful. Then, without a word, she made her way to the kitchen and gathered a few simple ingredients.
“Ma’am, are you
“I’m going to cook for Mr. Lancaster myself.”
Truthfully, Anastasia wasn’t much of a cook. But she remembered-back in another life, when Harrison wouldn’t eat and no one could coax him, she’d made him a bowl of nourishing soup, and he’d finished every drop.
She’d wanted to try something different this time, but knowing her limitations, she decided not to get fancy. She stuck to the one thing she knew she could manage -simple, comforting soup.
Over an hour later, as she surveyed the disaster zone that was now the kitchen, Anastasia was grateful for her own self-awareness. ᴛʜɪs ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ ɪs ᴜᴘᴅᴀᴛᴇ ʙʏ ~net
“Ma’am, your hand!” Fiona gasped, seeing the burn on Anastasia’s skin. “Let me get the burn ointment-”
“It’s fine.” Anastasia brushed it off, tugging her sleeve down. “I need to find Mr. Lancaster first.”
She ladled out a bowl of her hard-won soup, cradling it like treasure as she carefully headed upstairs.
The process had been a struggle, but thank God—she’d managed it in the end.
Harrison wasn’t in his room. Anastasia found him on the third-floor terrace, back turned to her, gazing out over the twinkling lights of Fairhaven. Whatever he was thinking, he was miles away.
“Darling?” Anastasia called softly, carrying the steaming bowl as she edged closer.
Harrison straightened, his expression shuttering. “What are you doing up here?”