Timothy’s eyes darkened; guilt flooded through him as he helped Jessica sit up and quickly fetched her a glass of water so she could rinse her mouth.
He’d gone too far—he could see now that he’d really hurt her.
Taking a clean towel, he dampened it, wrung it out, and gently wiped her face, then carefully smoothed her hair so she looked presentable again.
Finally, his voice raw with regret, he murmured, “We need to go to the hospital.”
He reached out to lift her, but Jessica dodged him, turning away and heading for the bathroom. In the kitchen, she quietly mixed a glass of saltwater and rinsed her mouth out on her own.
There was no way she’d go to the hospital with Timothy.
She couldn’t let him find out about the cancer. Last night had made it painfully clear—even after everything that happened, he had no intention of letting her go.
He always found a way to drive away anyone who tried to help her.
Bringing her here was the least of what he could do; if she resisted again, she dreaded to think where he might take her next.
She would never let him find out about her illness.
That was her last escape route—her final secret. If he discovered it, she’d lose even that.
She walked back to the bedroom, crawled under the covers, and turned her face to the wall.
Timothy followed, crouched beside the bed, and whispered, “Come on, sweetheart. Let’s go to the hospital, okay?”
Jessica didn’t move a muscle.
He grew anxious but forced himself to stay calm, coaxing her gently, “I know you’re upset with me right now—angry, even. But you can’t ignore your health. You’re coughing up blood. We have to see a doctor.”
At last, Jessica rolled over and signed at him, her gestures sharp: “Why do you think I’m coughing up blood? Don’t you know?”
A pang of shame twisted in Timothy’s chest.
If she went to the hospital with him, they might find out about her cancer.
She had no choice but to pin the blame on him.
Timothy’s handsome features tightened with remorse.
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