As the Southern Wind Moves On

Chapter 11---Will You Reconsider?

When I arrived at Ariana Whitmore's hospital room, she was already asleep. A middle-aged woman—the caretaker Maxwell Harrington had arranged—was also there. She greeted me briefly, indicating that Maxwell had assigned her to care for Ariana. With that, I didn't stay long.

I left the hospital and took a taxi straight back to the villa.

After a night of chaos, I returned to the villa at dawn. Perhaps due to the pregnancy, I felt unusually drowsy. Back in the bedroom, exhaustion overwhelmed me, so I climbed straight into bed and fell asleep.

In a hazy half-conscious state, I was abruptly awakened by a sharp smell of cigarette smoke. A dark silhouette sat beside the bed—I startled, then slowly realized it was Maxwell Harrington.

I didn't know when he'd come back. The room was thick with smoke; every window and door was closed. A lit cigarette burned between his long fingers. Judging by the dense haze, he must have smoked heavily.

"You're back," I said, sitting up and meeting his gaze.

He never smoked. That he was now openly smoking so much in the bedroom meant something was wrong.

He didn't speak, only fixed his deep, fathomless black eyes on me—eyes I couldn't decipher. The air grew suffocating. I threw off the blanket, got up, and went to open the window.

He was sitting on the sofa. As I passed, he suddenly reached out and yanked me into his arms, then clamped me in a grip so tight it frightened me.

"Maxwell!" I didn't know why he was like this, but I hated the stench of smoke on him. I struggled, but he wouldn't let go.

I stilled and turned to look at him. "Have you been drinking?" Up close, I now smelled the strong liquor on his breath.

"Do you hate me?" he asked abruptly, throwing me off guard. I stared at him, confused. His brows were knitted, and stubble lined his thin lips—perhaps too busy lately to shave.

"Yes, I hate you!" I replied, trying to pry his arms off. But he held on as if determined, refusing to release me.

His behavior left me bewildered. "Maxwell, what's wrong with you?"

"Will you take it back?" His dark eyes stayed on me. Maybe from the alcohol, they looked hazy.

I didn't understand. "Take back what?" I asked, puzzled.

He said nothing, only let his hand begin to wander. I knew exactly what he wanted.

Instinctively, I grabbed his wrist and frowned. "Maxwell, I'm Elara, not Ariana. Look at me clearly."

He didn't answer. Instead, he lifted me into his arms. A flurry of hurried, fragmented kisses—laced with alcohol—came crashing down on me, frantic and forceful.

"Maxwell, I'm Elara! Look at me!" I cried, breaking. I cupped his face, trying to force his eyes to focus.

He looked weary. He stared at me for several long seconds, then uttered flatly: "Mm." Yet his hands kept moving.

He'd been in a full suit, now rumpled from their struggle. His jacket lay discarded at the foot of the bed.

Seeing the wreckage scattered across the floor, I suddenly snapped awake. My unborn child couldn't endure this.

As he moved to continue, I shoved him away, scrambled off the bed, and pulled the blanket around me. "Maxwell, you're drunk."

With that, I walked out of the bedroom.

I changed clothes and left the house. Staying here, I feared I wouldn't be able to protect this child.