By the next morning, the bruises on Catherine's face had faded considerably. If one didn't look closely, they would be invisible. She dabbed on a light layer of pink to conceal the remaining redness and dared to tie her hair back, revealing her face.
When she arrived at the hospital, Renata was already awake. Catherine stayed by her side, helping her wash up and get dressed.
For the surgery, Renata's hair had been completely shaved. Standing there as Renata went through the motions of washing herself, Catherine felt her eyes prick with unshed tears.
To hide her emotions, she forced a smile and claimed she had a phone call to make, turning and leaving the bathroom.
At the doorway, she tried to steady her racing heart, only to see Renata's surgeon approaching with an older doctor in tow, hurrying toward them. Before Catherine could speak, the surgeon greeted her:
"Miss Channing, perfect timing. Let me introduce you."
He gestured toward the older man beside him.
"This is Director Simon of the Neurosurgery Department, a leading authority in cranial surgeries. He will personally perform your mother's operation today, and I will assist."
Director Simon extended his hand courteously.
"Is the patient inside? I only learned about this case last night, so I have several questions to discuss with both the patient and family before surgery."
Catherine was momentarily stunned.
"Hello, Director Simon," she said, stepping aside.
"My mother is inside. Please, come in."
As they entered the room and spoke with Renata, Catherine gradually composed herself. The previous surgeon explained Renata's condition to Director Simon in meticulous detail, and both of them spoke with focused professionalism.
Every patient hoped for the best doctor, especially for something as serious as cranial surgery. Catherine had always wished she could bring in a top-tier specialist for Renata, but knew she lacked the connections or resources. So she had always resigned herself to fate.
Yet today, suddenly, a renowned expert was performing the surgery. Catherine's heart leapt with hope, though she wondered who could have arranged this. Certainly not Channing—after last night, he'd been furious, how could he possibly intervene?
Still, she pushed those thoughts aside. All that mattered now was Renata's safety and the success of the surgery.
Time flew by. Soon after the hospital opened, staff arrived to wheel Renata to the operating room. She remained calm, lying on the stretcher, while Catherine's own heart raced uncontrollably.
The path to the OR included an elevator and a long corridor. Catherine held Renata's hand all the way, tightening her grip to control her trembling emotions.
At the very threshold of the OR, Catherine couldn't hold back any longer. Her voice cracked,
"Mom――"
Tears she had held back for days now poured freely. Fear gripped her chest—what if Renata didn't come back? What if something terrible happened?
Renata, eyes rimmed with red, reached out gently, her calm voice soothing.
"If anything happens to me… you go. Leave this city full of troubles and live your life well."
With that, Renata slowly closed her eyes and withdrew her hand.
The emptiness was overwhelming. Catherine felt her soul hollow out as she collapsed against the wall outside the OR, crying desperately,
"Mom――"
But the only response was the cold, heavy door of the operating room, shut tight. It loomed before her like the gate to the underworld.
Her knees gave way. Catherine sank to the floor, clutching herself, burying her face in her arms, waiting helplessly for each agonizing second to pass.
Memories assaulted her: the night she had a high fever and Renata carried her to the hospital, tender and worried; mornings when Renata would wake early to prepare breakfast; the tears she had shed in her room when discovering Channing's betrayal; the fierce determination during the divorce fight over custody; the years of unwavering companionship since.
Someone once said the most moving word in the world is "mother." Today, Catherine felt it in its fullest, purest form through Renata.
Renata was in the operating room, her fate uncertain, and Catherine felt utterly helpless.
She remained there, heartbroken, sitting on the cold floor, tears streaming down her face, soaking the sleeves of her clothes.
The hallway outside the OR was silent, eerily so. No one passed by. She hugged herself tightly, trying to find some comfort, but the emptiness pressed in from all sides.
Time lost all meaning until—suddenly—footsteps echoed along the quiet corridor.
Steady. Deliberate. Strong. Every step carried the weight of a mature, composed man.
Catherine didn't lift her head. Who could it be? Only Riley might come, she thought. No man would appear here. Perhaps he was simply lost.
Yet the footsteps grew closer, closer still, until finally they stopped right in front of her.
A low, deep voice broke the silence, tinged with a subtle edge of disapproval:
"Sit on a chair if there's one. Why insist on the floor? Trying to show how exceptional a patient's family member you are?"
Catherine froze. That voice—it was familiar. Last night, she had spent time with this man in her home.
She lifted her tear-streaked face to look at him.
It was him—the man who had dined at her place just the night before. Today, he wore a dark navy shirt, his posture as upright and commanding as ever. Perhaps because she was seated on the floor, looking up at him, he seemed even taller, even more imposing.
His eyes, deep and penetrating, locked on her face, unyielding.
Catherine whispered, her voice fragile,
"Is… it you?"
Then she lowered her gaze again, her words barely more than a sigh,
"Are you… here for something?"
She didn't understand why he had come. At this moment, she had no strength for anyone. All she wanted was to wait—just wait—for Renata to finish surgery.
"Stand up."
His voice was colder this time, more commanding. Catherine lifted her head, bewildered.
His expression was difficult to read, shadowed and complex. Her mind, clouded with fear and anxiety over Renata's surgery, couldn't interpret it. All she knew was that his presence was overwhelmingly strong—his gaze, his aura, pressed down on her like a force she could barely withstand.
Just as she was lost in thought, he reached out his hand toward her.
Long, strong fingers, nails impeccably trimmed, a prominent ring on his index finger. The joints were well-defined, the palm dry yet broad, radiating a quiet strength.
Catherine didn't know what possessed her. Almost instinctively, she placed her hand into his, and through their interlocked palms, his steady strength pulled her upright.
He released her hand immediately afterward, as if the gesture itself had been purely courteous.
Having sat on the floor for so long, Catherine's legs and feet were numb. As she attempted to take a step, she stumbled slightly. The man's hands were instantly at her waist, steadying her, preventing an awkward fall—but even so, off-balance, she ended up pressed against his chest, her cheek resting lightly against him.
The scent of him—warm, masculine—drifted into her senses. Through the thin fabric of his shirt, she could feel the steady beat of his heart.
And the weight of his hand on her waist, firm yet gentle, sent her senses reeling. Consciousness sharpened slightly, heat flaring to her cheeks, ears burning red.
"Cici!"
Startled, she heard hurried footsteps approaching, along with a man's anxious shout.
Following the voice, her eyes met Gerald, his expression tense and alarmed. But upon seeing her pressed into the other man's embrace, his movements froze, a hard pause gripping his features. Slowly, he stopped a few steps away, gaze heavy with hurt and confusion.
"This… who is he?"
Gerald's eyes landed on the man holding Catherine. Tall, broad-shouldered, every movement radiating quiet power. Catherine looked even smaller, more delicate, in his embrace. His attire was sharp, unmistakably someone of influence, and his presence alone carried an undeniable aura—calm yet suffocating in its intensity.
Gerald had only fleeting memories of Bert during Burg Eltz's brief commercial prominence, and after Bert left, the S-family affairs had mostly been handled by others. Gerald had barely crossed paths with anyone connected to Washington Co. aside from Dave.
Catherine stepped back, distancing herself from the man, but didn't answer Gerald's question. Instead, she turned to Gerald, her expression calm, almost indifferent:
"Do you need something?"
It wasn't that she was deliberately withholding the man's identity—it was simply that she didn't know it herself. How could she possibly introduce him?
And then there was Gerald's gaze—the way he looked at her just now. Pain lingered there, but so did disappointment.
Catherine understood exactly what that disappointment meant. Seeing her pressed against that man, Gerald had jumped to conclusions, assuming that she must have some kind of involvement with him. Perhaps ever since the scandal two years ago, Gerald had assumed that men would never be absent from her life, and that she could never truly be without them.
His disappointment wasn't just disappointment—it was a judgment. By feeling that way, he was implicitly confirming the very thing he accused her of: that she was loose, unrestrained.
As for the pain in his eyes… Catherine didn't bother to question it. Ever since the day he broke off their engagement, she had told herself that Gerald and she had nothing to do with each other anymore.
Well… not exactly.
He was, after all, her half-sister's boyfriend. If things went as planned, he would eventually be her brother-in-law.
So could she really say they had no connection at all?