Chapter 18
Pain only becomes real when the knife cuts to the bone. For the first time, he finally understood what Seren must have felt back then.
Meeting Swain’s gaze-so conflicted, so tangled-Seren felt an unexpected sense of release wash over her.
She’d been wanting to say those words for so long, but caution always held her back. Today, though, she finally let them spill out, sharp and unrestrained.
If they could hurt her so freely, why should she keep tiptoeing around their feelings?
She was done with Swain’s excuses. Without a second look, Seren walked right by him and set off for the Rutledge estate.
Swain remained where he stood, staring after her as she walked away.
Her back was straight, her posture proud and unyielding-she didn’t look back, not even once.
A shadow passed over Swain’s eyes.
He suddenly recalled the way Seren used to cling to his every step, her eyes bright and full of worship. Back then, everything about her spoke volumes of her admiration.
At the time, he’d thought Seren was just a naïve, excitable kid.
He’d often been irritated by her obsession with painting-how she ignored their mother’s advice and stubbornly pursued her “pointless” art.
He’d brushed her off more times than he could count, never bothering to get involved.
But now, she seemed bristling with thorns. She didn’t circle around him anymore, barely even bothered to speak. Despite being siblings, it felt as if they were strangers now.
And for the first time, Swain regretted how he’d treated her.
Maybe people only learn to appreciate what they have after it’s already gone.
He also recalled that Seren had always been strong-willed-bright and fiercely independent. Even as a child, she was a force of her own, shining too brightly to be overlooked.
Sometimes, he’d even envied her.
He wasn’t sure when it started, but at some point, her confidence began to look like arrogance to him-her defiance grated on his nerves, and he found fault with everything she did.
He’d started to echo their mother’s words, believing art was a waste of time. After all, if Seren kept this up, what kind of future could she possibly have?
But at the end of the day, he told himself it was for her own good.
Maybe he had been too hard on her. But he meant well-he truly cared, even if he got it all wrong.
Seren wasn’t an unreasonable person. If he could just explain himself, maybe she’d understand.
Swain remembered, too, that Seren had just broken up with Sheridan. She had to be hurting his harsh words had only made it worse.
What had he been thinking?
Regret gnawed at him. He wanted to
catch up to her and clear the air, but he knew Seren-right now, in her
state, she wouldn’t listen,
barely want to see him.
If he pushed it, they’d probably just end up fighting in front of Old Mr. Rutledge
and making fools of themselves.
He weighed it in his mind and concluded it was better to let some time pass-a few days, perhaps.
With his mind made up, Swain turned, stepped into his Maybach, and drove away.
Swain’s words had been cutting, but compared to what Zena had said before, they almost sounded gentle.
Seren had heard far worse, and she was used to it by now.
Besides, she’d already decided to cut all ties with them—so what did it matter what they had to say?
People who no longer mattered, their words didn’t matter either.
She heard the Maybach start up and drive away. Seren didn’t look back, just kept walking deeper into the estate.
Truthfully, she was relieved Swain
had left; the last thing she wanted was to have another scene with him. in front of Old Mr. Rutledge an Lennon.
The Rutledge family was one of the most prominent names in Seaside City.
Rutledge Manor was sprawling-almost five thousand square meters, a stately old mansion with a classic layout.
As Seren stepped through the arched entryway, someone came out to greet her.
“Miss Seren, you’re finally here!” the woman beamed. It was Joyce, one of the Rutledge family’s longtime housekeepers.
Joyce has been with our family since Seren was born, and the two have always been like family.
Seren nodded her greeting, but
before she could say a word, heret
attention was caught by a collection of omate trunks arranged in the main courtyard
The boxes were beautifully crafted, elegant and old-fashioned, clearly worth a fortune.
She’d never seen them before and couldn’t help but ask, “Joyce, what are those for p>
Before Joyce could answer, a gentle voice called out from nearby.
“They’re engagement gifts from the Crestwell family p>