After her shower, Jessica settled down at the desk and began sketching patterns onto the fabric spread before her.
She knew the fabric would fray once it was cut, and since she didn't have the right stiffening spray at home, she'd had a professional at the textile market handle it for her.
At least she wasn't a stranger to crafts—years of helping Henry with his paper-cutting projects had kept her hands nimble and her lines steady.
Her movements were fluid, almost instinctive.
Still, after that dizzy spell this morning—passing out in the car and ending up in the hospital—she wasn't quite herself. A dull ache pulsed in her abdomen.
When she'd first heard the diagnosis—cancer—she hadn't believed it. She'd always felt healthy, never had any pain. The only time she could recall real discomfort was that one day her stomach hurt so badly she'd gone to the hospital—and that was when her world shattered.
Life could change in an instant.
The doctor had warned her: if she was feeling pain, it meant things were already serious.
Ever since then, even the smallest twinge seemed magnified.
She stood up and took a couple of pills, waiting for the pain to subside, then quietly returned to her work.
Ten minutes later, there was a soft chime.
The door opened.
She turned. Timothy had already stepped inside.
Her eyes narrowed, brows drawing tight.
Timothy entered with a chill in his demeanor, dark eyes sweeping across her desk.
Jessica lowered her head, ignoring him, continuing her careful lines on the fabric.
His gaze was cold, his handsome face set in indifference.
He had come to her, yet she didn't even acknowledge his presence.
After a moment, he lit a cigarette.
She caught the faint scent of sandalwood, her hand pausing for just a second before she forced herself to keep working.
He leaned against the wall, silent for a while, then finally spoke, his voice low and gravelly—almost beautiful in its roughness. "So, how long are you planning to keep running from home?"
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