She Was Never Just a Pretty Face novel Chapter 5

At that moment, Luther walked out with Jolie. He needed to make a trip to the hospital.

Seeing Harrell still lingering, Luther looked mildly surprised. "What are you looking at, Harrell?"

Harrell's expression was complicated. He looked at his cousin as if he were staring at a walking cuckold, then offered a very faint smile. "Just something interesting."

Did Luther know his wife had a child? A child with deep ties to the Sutton family, no less.

But Harrell wasn't one to meddle in other people's business. Even if they were blood relatives and childhood friends. He was far more interested in The Bibliophile than in Luther's messy love life.

Since he had some free time, he decided to extend his stay in Alpha City to track down the elusive artist and acquire a few pieces—not as an investment, but out of pure admiration.

Harrell left first.

Luther dropped Jolie off at home before heading out to pick up medication for his grandmother, Matilda. She had always been in poor health, but she had taken a sharp turn for the worse over the last few days. Her doctors had advised against invasive treatments, focusing entirely on palliative care.

...

Luther never expected to run into his wife.

Late at night, in the corridors of Alpha General Hospital.

Hilda leaned against a hard plastic chair, exhaustion etched deep into her features.

Her mother had started coughing up blood. The attending doctor told her the illness was incredibly difficult to treat locally and recommended transferring her to Switzerland for better odds. However, she needed at least three million dollars upfront.

Hilda only had about four hundred thousand. It wasn't nearly enough.

She suddenly sensed a presence.

Slowly opening her eyes, she saw him.

Even in the dead of night, he looked utterly impeccable, exuding the untouchable aura of an elite.

In stark contrast, she was deathly pale.

Seeing him, her mind immediately went to her mother's deteriorating condition.

When a person is pushed to the absolute edge of despair, certain choices become painfully easy.

"Get in the car. I'll take you home."

He clearly wanted to talk with her.

...

Hilda moved toward the back, but he pulled open the passenger door, jerking his chin in a silent command.

Without a word, she slid into the front seat.

The drive was suffocatingly quiet. Luther steered the wheel while she kept her face turned, blindly watching the city lights blur past the window. They were legally married, yet felt more distant than complete strangers.

The interior of the car even smelled faintly of Jolie's signature perfume. Chanel No. 5.

Her face grew paler by the second. Having been caught in the freezing rain earlier, she was running a severe fever. Her body felt like it was burning up.

She had used the absolute last ounce of her strength to tell him the truth—that she had been faithful, that she hadn't lived with anyone else, that Annie was his own flesh and blood. But he didn't believe her. He called her a liar. He called her undignified.

It turned out, this so-called love had always been far more degraded than she had ever imagined.

Tears swam in her eyes. She fought them back, refusing to let them fall.

But her eyes stung violently.

Just like the bitter reality of her and her mother's lives.

She stopped arguing. She stopped explaining. She simply closed her eyes.

The light turned green. He hit the gas.

The car fell silent.

A deeply abnormal silence.

Approaching the next intersection, he decided to press the issue further. But when he glanced over, he saw her head slumped forward, a sickly, feverish flush painting her cheeks.

He reached out to touch her forehead.

She was burning up!