The Year I Stopped Being His novel Chapter 279

Garrison stood on the porch, his hand resting on the doorknob. He froze the moment he heard his own name.

"—When exactly are you going to talk to Garrison about it?" It was Rosemary's voice, hushed but vibrating with an urgency she couldn't hide.

"Talk about what?" Vincent replied slowly, followed by the sharp clink of a teacup hitting a saucer.

"Stop playing dumb with me. About Quinn. She's almost thirty. A girl wasting the best years of her life in our house without any official status—aren't you going to give her an answer?"

Vincent was silent for a few seconds before he sighed heavily. "Now is not the time for this. Sloane just passed away. Garrison hasn't even processed it yet. If you bring up remarrying now, do you really think he'll listen? Just be patient."

"Patient, patient, that's all you ever say!"

Rosemary's voice pitched up before she forced it back down into a harsh whisper. "I had no choice but to tolerate Sloane taking up the spot of the Foster family's daughter-in-law all these years. But think about Quinn. Think about Archie! Archie is only five, and he's already lost his mother. I just want to give him a new one. Can't you see how Quinn treats him? She's more of a mother to him than Sloane ever was!"

Vincent sounded aggravated by the comment, his tone hardening. "Sloane wasn't around the boy these past few years anyway. What difference does it make to Archie whether she's here or not? Stop using him as your excuse."

Rosemary scoffed coldly. "Exactly. They were already divorced. Even if this hadn't happened, she wouldn't have been a Foster anymore. She occupied that position for long enough."

"Rosemary." Vincent's voice carried a sharp edge of warning. "Regardless of everything else, she gave us Archie. She's gone now. Don't speak about her like that."

"Hah." Rosemary's laugh was chilling, the words practically hissed through her teeth. "Didn't she use underhanded tricks to force my son into marrying her in the first place? I despised her from the moment she walked through our doors. All these years, even if she threw herself at my feet and begged me, even if she served me with her life, I would never appreciate a damn thing she did. Who was all that self-righteous nobility for anyway?"

Garrison's heart seized violently.

Garrison stood in the doorway. His suit jacket was draped over his forearm, his tie hanging loosely around his neck, the scabbed wound on his jaw glaringly stark under the chandelier lights.

Rosemary was sitting on the sofa, a teacup in her hand. The moment she saw him, her fingers instinctively clamped tight around the porcelain. Vincent was standing by the coffee table, one hand still planted on the wood, his newly gathered authority instantly shattered by Garrison's sudden appearance.

"Garrison, you... you're back," Rosemary stammered, her voice shaking.

Garrison's gaze locked onto her like a razor-sharp blade. He stared her down and asked, word by agonizing word:

"What did you mean when you said she served you with her life?"