As the Southern Wind Moves On

Chapter 10---Maxwell's Indifference

Maxwell Harrington, who had been lingering as a spectator, stepped into the room. His gaze lowered, his voice crisp and distant as he regarded Ariana Whitmore. "Why aren't you resting yet?"

To Elara Marston, Maxwell's arrival was sudden. She was sweet and coquettish; at the sight of him, she tugged at the hem of his coat, pulling him down beside her on the bed, then wrapped her arms around him. "Slept too much during the day—can't sleep now. Why did you come?"

"To check on you." As he spoke, Maxwell's dark eyes flicked to me, settling on the back of my hand. A faint frown creased his brow. "Go get that treated."

His voice was thin and cold, devoid of sympathy or concern.

Ariana clung to him, her delicate face shadowed with remorse. "I was so careless—I burned Elara's hand."

Maxwell stroked her long hair, his expression placid, showing no trace of reproach.

I felt as if I'd been thrust to the brink of a precipice. A crushing pain gripped my chest, making it hard to breathe. Step by step, I edged toward the door, retreating from the ward.

From the beginning, I'd known I would lose this gamble with Ariana. Still, I'd clung to a sliver of hope—that even a single word from Maxwell, just "Does it hurt?"—might be enough to keep me going.

But in the end, I couldn't even earn a pitying glance, not a shred of compassion.

In the corridor, a broad chest blocked my path. I looked up to find Elias Montgomery, his brows slightly furrowed, his gaze solemn.

Puzzled, I said, "Dr. Montgomery."

He studied me for a long moment, then asked quietly, "Does it hurt?"

I froze. A wave of bitterness surged through my heart. *Plink!* A tear, like a tiny pearl, struck the floor. A cold draft howled through the corridor, amplifying the desolation of the already bleak and empty hallway.

See? Even a virtual stranger asks, "Does it hurt?" Yet the man I've spent two years with acts as if I don't exist.

My hand was taken. I instinctively tried to pull away, but he held it tighter.

"I'm a doctor," Elias said, his tone firm, leaving no room for refusal. As a doctor, he had no choice but to act.

Yet I knew he wasn't one to meddle. He cared only because I was Maxwell Harrington's wife.

Following Elias into the treatment room, he murmured a few instructions to a nurse, then turned to me. "Cooperate. We'll dress the wound properly."

I nodded. "Thank you."

After Elias left, the nurse cleaned the burn on the back of my hand. Seeing the white blisters rising, she pursed her lips. "This is serious. It might scar."

"It's fine," I said. Let it be a reckoning.

Because of the blisters, treating the wound required puncturing them and draining the pus.

Afraid I might break under the pain, the nurse warned, "It'll hurt—bear it if you can."

"Mm."

This pain wasn't real pain. The real pain was the one tearing through my nerves, deep in my chest.

Once done, the nurse gave a few final words, and I prepared to return to Ariana's ward. Passing the stairwell, I heard muffled voices from within and paused.

"Grandfather's gone. When will you divorce her?" That voice—was it Elias's?

"Her? Elara?" The man's voice was low, icy—too familiar. Maxwell.

I crept closer. Through the dim light, I saw Maxwell leaning against the railing, hands in his pockets, his posture rigid, his expression glacial. Elias stood against the wall, a cigarette smoldering between his fingers, half-burned.

He tapped the ash with his finger, then fixed Maxwell with a calm gaze. "You know she did nothing wrong. It's only because she loves you."

Maxwell lifted his eyes, gave him a cold glance. "Since when have you taken an interest in her?"

Elias frowned. "You're reading too much into it. I'm just warning you—don't regret it later. Even the deepest love can be withdrawn."

"Hmph." Maxwell sneered. "I've never cared for her love…"

I didn't stay to hear more. Some truths are meant to be borne in silence. If you insist on hearing them spoken aloud, you're only asking for pain.