Chapter 550

Dahlia had lost her mind.
The torment she endured in prison shattered her sanity.
A team of professionals had been brought in to evaluate her, and the diagnosis was clear: Dahlia was suffering from a severe mental disorder.
Her behavior was completely out of control.
The recommendation was to transfer her to a psychiatric hospital.
Charles stared at the assessment report in his hands, then glanced toward the corner of the room where Dahlia sat crouched, hair wild and tangled, mumbling to herself.
One moment, she would burst into foolish laughter; the next, she’d suddenly break into tears.
Her sobs would twist into sheer terror as she stared wide-eyed at nothing, her emotions spiraling out of control, arms flailing wildly as she shrieked without end.
Sometimes she screamed, “Don’t come any closer! Don’t hit me!”
Other times, “It wasn’t me who killed you! It wasn’t me! Please, don’t haunt me!”
Then, all of a sudden, she’d drop to her knees, stroking the empty floor as if soothing a phantom child, whispering, “Sandy, I’m your mother.”
Moments later, she would fly into a frenzy, banging her head against the wall again and again. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry!”
She hit the wall so hard, blood soon streaked down her forehead.
But she seemed numb to the pain, continuing to bash her head with reckless force.
A guard rushed over, pulling Dahlia away, stopping her from hurting herself further.
Catching sight of Charles, Dahlia suddenly thrashed in the guard’s grip, her face smeared with blood. She gazed at Charles, her eyes full of desperate yearning, and cried out, “Charles, have you come to marry me?”
“Charles, you promised. You said you’d marry me. Why haven’t you kept your word?”
Charles stared back at her, his expression blank.
The report was genuine.
And the woman before him truly seemed deranged.
If this was all an act, it was a desperate ploy to escape the prison.
Did she really think the psychiatric hospital would be a safe haven? Or perhaps
she hoped to make a getaway during the transfer?
“If she’s sick, then send her to the hospital,” Charles said coldly, turning away. He left the prison.
Dahlia was scheduled for immediate transfer.
She didn’t just travel under police escort-Charles had also dispatched his own men, ensuring she made it safely to the psychiatric facility.
After Dahlia was securely admitted, Aiden entered Charles’ office to report, “Mr. Jenkins, on the way to the hospital, Dahlia had a breakdown and demanded to use the restroom. On the way there with the officers, she tried to bolt into the crowd, but our people caught her.”
Charles nodded. “I expected as much. Even if she’s faking, she won’t be able to escape.”
Leaving prison was no liberation for Dahlia.
The psychiatric hospital was just another nightmare.
A sane person, trapped among the truly disturbed, would only spiral further into despair.
Charles reviewed the previous quarter’s report for the Hope for Charlie Foundation.
Three years ago, after learning that Charlie had died from kidney failure, he and Rory created the
Ye’
foundation-named in Charlie’s honor to provide funding and medical help for patients with
similar conditions.
He hoped to do some good in Charlie’s name, as penance.
Once he’d sorted everything out, he planned to hand the foundation over to Eve,
letting her manage it.
Dahlia had managed to get out of prison.
She’d thought that pretending to be
insane would make them drop their
guard, but she hadn’t expected
Charles to keep her under such close watch.
Now she was really locked away in a psychiatric hospital.
It was then that Dahlia realized Charles was truly done with her.
This place was even harder to endure than prison.
After suffering a week inside, she felt herself teetering on the edge of genuine madness.
All the while, Evelyn was out there, living her life in happiness and peace.
Evelyn had ruined her, left her to suffer-so why should Evelyn get to enjoy a good life?
If it
her
for that wretched
sinsistence of
clinging
would never have fallen soet
a worthless brat,
And Charles-he’d made her suffer, and she’d make sure he suffered for the rest
of his life.
If Evelyn died, Charles would be haunted by pain forever.
Dahlia pinned her hopes on a male orderly who worked on her ward.
She’d noticed how he sometimes took advantage of the more vulnerable women
in the hospital.
That was her chance.
Dahlia was an expert at seduction.
The next time the orderly brought her lunch, she deliberately loosened her
clothing, showing just enough skin to tempt him.
When he glanced her way, she drew closer, fighting her revulsion as she reached
for his belt, sinking to her knees.
It took Dahlia three days to win him over.
She played the victim, coaxed his sympathy, made him feel protective—until, at
last, he agreed to help her.
One night, the orderly smuggled her out of the hospital and brought her back to his apartment.
His place wasn’t far from Maple Avenue.
Standing by the window, Dahlia gazed out at the familiar houses of Maple Avenue,
her eyes burning with vengeful fire.
If she was doomed to hell, she’d make sure to drag Evelyn down with her.