Some Ruins Can Never Be Rebuilt

Chapter 2

Alexander didn't return home until late that night.

He looked exhausted and smelled of paint from the gallery.

When he saw Sylvie sitting on the couch, he walked over as if nothing were wrong.

In his mind, he had handled everything with dignity and consideration.

He had resolved his foster sister's crisis, and he had compensated his wife with far more than 10 times the theater's value.

"The light in the gallery was wonderful today. Vivian finally ate something, and her mood has stabilized."

Alexander sat beside Sylvie and reached for her cold hand.

"I know this has been hard on you, but a life was at stake. If Vivian killed herself because of her depression, we would carry that guilt forever."

Without drawing attention to the movement, Sylvie pulled her hand away and slipped it beneath the blanket.

Alexander's hand closed on empty air. It hovered there for a moment as his brow furrowed.

"Sylvie, I spent more than 10 hours at the hospital and the gallery today. I'm exhausted." He withdrew his hand, his voice low. "The new property has already been transferred to your name. Stop sulking."

"I'm not sulking." Sylvie raised her eyes to his.

Alexander studied his wife's face.

She was still beautiful, but the eyes that had once overflowed with love for him were utterly empty.

Whenever Vivian's condition came up in the past, Sylvie would feel hurt and furious.

She would demand to know why Vivian seemed to be the only person in the world allowed to get sick, and why Sylvie always had to be the one to give in.

Now, she didn't even ask about the gallery.

That calm, so completely beyond his control, inexplicably irritated a man accustomed to controlling everything.

"Alexander..."

Vivian had approached without either of them noticing. Her face was pale, and her eyes were red.

In her hands, she held a palette pieced together with glue—the very one Lucas had made from Sylvie's grandfather's irreplaceable drawings.

"Please don't fight..." Vivian's tears fell on cue. "Sylvie, what happened to the theater was all my fault. Please don't hate Alexander..."

Lucas raced downstairs barefoot, wrapped his arms around Vivian, and glared viciously at Sylvie.

"Bad Mom! Dad only tore down your stupid theater so Aunt Vivian could get some sun. How can you be so heartless?"

"Lucas, enough." Alexander sounded resigned rather than truly stern.

He bent down, lifted his son, and ruffled his hair. "He's too young to understand. Don't hold it against him."

Seated in the middle of the couch, Sylvie quietly regarded the three of them.

The composed man, the fragile foster sister, and the fiercely protective son.

What a touching family of three.

She—and her family's 300-year-old theater—were nothing more than stepping stones on their path to feeling noble about themselves.

"I'm not holding anything against him." Sylvie stood. "I accepted the 1.2 million dollars. Put the new property in Vivian's name. She can use it when she expands her gallery."

Alexander's face darkened instantly. "Are you done being sarcastic? The theater is gone, I paid you, and I bought you new land. Vivian came to apologize even though she's sick. What else do you want from me?"

He believed he had considered the greater good, saved a life, and even been willing to spend several million dollars to make her happy.

Why did she insist on clinging to the issue like a bitter shrew?

Sylvie studied the grievance and anger on Alexander's face and couldn't help laughing.

It was a laugh of pure mockery.

"I'll be at the company gala on time tomorrow."

Without looking at him again, Sylvie turned toward the stairs.

"Get some rest, Alexander."

Her footsteps made no sound as she went upstairs, like ashes on the verge of scattering.

Alexander stood in the center of the foyer and watched her disappear. For some reason, his heart suddenly clenched.