Chapter 258
Chapter 258:
Brinley leaned closer, squinting at the faded ink scrawled across the medical record. Two phrases stood out: “gastric spasm” and “malnutrition p>
Tucked beside the report was a small photograph. A boy stared back at her, swallowed in an ill-fitting suit. His eyes held a timid sheen—a stark contrast to the sharp, commanding gaze she had come to know in Austin.
“Back then, his father brought him in himself,” the older doctor murmured with a sigh. “The child was in such pain he could hardly stand, yet he kept insisting, ‘Dad, I’m fine.’ It was heartbreaking p>
Brinley’s fingers drifted to the edge of the photograph. A sharp ache gripped her chest.
She had always imagined Austin—the youngest and most cherished son of the Moore family—as someone raised in endless comfort, sheltered by wealth and affection. But reality painted a far crueler picture.
“And then?” Her voice trembled despite her effort to keep it steady.
“Later, he came alone,” the doctor replied, turning another fragile page. “By the time he was seven, he would walk here with his backpack slung over his shoulders, no one by his side.” He sighed. “You might not know this—his mother died giving birth to him. Within the Moore household, people whispered he was a curse, a jinx that stole her life. His father loved him, yes, but the family was vast and merciless. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t shield the boy from every cruelty. Many times, Austin endured everything in silence p>
𝗠𝗼ѕ𝘁 𝘳e𝖺𝖽 t𝘩is 𝗐eek on.сo𝗆
Brinley’s eyes burned, her vision blurring.
The man she saw as indestructible had once been a fragile child forced to survive storms alone.
His calm, his resilience, his refusal to show weakness—none of it had come easily. It had been forged in solitude and unrelenting pain.
“Does he… often skip meals?” she asked, her voice catching.
“Yes.” The doctor gave a grave nod. “He would skip meals to secure those projects. One meal a day wasn’t unusual. And when he took over Moore Group, the work consumed him. He barely paused to drink, let alone eat. Stomach medicine was the only thing he kept close p>
“Thank you,” Brinley whispered, rising to her feet. Her hands trembled, but her eyes held resolve. “I know what to do now p>
When she slipped back into the hospital room, Austin was still asleep, breathing steadily in the quiet.
Brinley sank into the chair beside him, her gaze tracing his pale face.
Her fingers reached out almost instinctively, smoothing the furrow lingering between his brows. They hovered at his cheek, reluctant to let go.
“Austin,” she breathed, her voice barely more than a sigh, “from now on, you won’t be alone p>
She didn’t say the rest aloud, but in her heart she made a vow. She would remind him to eat, press warm water into his hands when the ache returned, and stand as his shield against the world.
Perhaps, in the tender haze of dreams, Austin heard her—because his lips curved faintly, the ghost of a smile touching his face, as if her promise had reached him.
Over the next few days, Brinley might as well have moved her entire office into the hospital.
Each morning, she rushed through urgent matters at the company, only to plant herself in Austin’s ward by noon, overseeing not just his meals but practically his every bite. The cafeteria cook had never worked under such scrutiny. With Brinley hovering nearby, he chopped, simmered, and stirred like a man bracing for judgment.
Yam and pork ribs simmered until the meat slipped obediently from the bone, and even the simplest vegetables were tossed with a sparing hand—low oil, low salt—everything tailored to her standards.