Marlon Marshall was lying there playing on his phone, the sound of incoming ssages chiming nonstop.
Ti ticked by. He glanced over at Jean Grant, and after making sure she was fast asleep, he got dressed again and left.
Jean Grant picked up her laptop, but a quick check confird the guest room was empty.
She hurried to get dressed as well. Walking on the floor in just her socks, she made no sound at all.
Down the stairs, at the entrance to the living room, she saw their figures disappear through the front door.
She quickly put on her shoes and followed them to the front door. She watched Marlon Marshall drive away with Carol Young. Jean Grant’s eyes darkened, and she imdiately got into her own Porsche.
She trailed behind them, not daring to get too close. Late at night, there were few cars on the road, so even from a distance, she could clearly see them.
The car arrived at the Young family’s apartnt building, and they quickly headed inside.
Jean Grant was baffled. ’Isn’t my villa big enough for them to fool around in? Why did they have to co back here?’
She parked her car nearby as well and jogged to the entrance of the building.
After confirming which floor and which apartnt they had entered, Jean Grant crept upstairs cautiously and stood outside the door.
There were voices inside.
She pressed her ear against the door to listen, but it was shut tight and she couldn’t get in. She had no choice but to leave.
The lights went out. Nora Ainsworth snuggled contentedly in Quentin Grant’s arms and drifted off to sleep.
He, however, couldn’t fall asleep no matter what.
His eyes showed not a hint of drowsiness.
He threw on a robe, got out of bed, and picked up a glass of red wine.
Standing on the balcony, he saw it had started to snow outside.
Snow at midnight. Flakes drifted down one after another.
He held the stemd glass, the red wine sloshing gently inside.
His expression was placid, but a closer look revealed a touch of lancholy in his eyes.
There was a faint pain in his gaze.
No one knew what kind of tornt was buried in this man’s heart right now.
A few days ago, after he called the gynecology departnts at the General Hospital and the hospital near the film studio, all he knew was the fact that there was a ninety-five percent chance she couldn’t get pregnant.
But just as he was about to hang up, the head of gynecology at the hospital near the film studio personally told him that the results of Nora Ainsworth’s endotrial biopsy would be out soon.
Only then did he learn it was a cancer screening.
He had soone make a multi-million dollar donation to the hospital, and the report that was supposed to take a few days was in his hands within hours.
He still rembered that afternoon when he got the report, and the few words he saw in the conclusion section at the very bottom.
They were the cruelest words in the world.
Early-stage endotrial cancer.
They weren’t a knife, but they cut deeper than any blade.
At the mont, he was the only one who knew. He was trying every possible ans, searching the globe for a surefire specialist, all to keep her by his side forever.
The search was still ongoing.
With each passing day, he found himself unable to sleep late into the night.
Just a few days ago, when she went to pick up her test results, he had arranged for the doctor to give her a report for simple hyperplasia—nothing serious.
This was because early-stage patients generally required a total hysterectomy, which had a very high survival rate.
But Quentin Grant knew that even though she had pathological infertility, she was a woman who, deep down, desperately wanted to be a mother.
’If even that five percent chance was gone, would she still be happy?’
He had to find either a doctor who could cure her with conservative treatnt or break new ground and find a terminal cancer patient for a uterine transplant—a female patient who couldn’t have any gynecological diseases.
This terminal cancer patient would also have to et a whole list of criteria, including being a willing, young woman who was about to pass away.
eting all those conditions was incredibly difficult.
One option was conservative treatnt, the other was surgery.
Comparatively, Quentin Grant preferred the latter. Conservative treatnt had a high risk of recurrence, and that was what he worried about most.
This series of problems had his heart praying at every mont.
Quentin Grant downed the red wine in his glass. How he wished this would all be over soon.
He returned to the bedroom, took off his coat, and tossed it on a chair. The neatly folded report from his pocket fell out, but it was so light that Quentin Grant didn’t notice.
The next day, Nora Ainsworth woke up, went to the bathroom to wash up, and when she ca out, her gaze fell upon the report that had fallen out last night.
She slowly walked over and reached out to pick it up.
Quentin Grant sat up, lazily grabbing his clothes to put them on, his eyes fixed on her hands.
His heart skipped a beat. He wanted to jump down and snatch it away, but he was a step too late. She had already unfolded the paper.
As its contents t her eyes, he suddenly didn’t dare to et her gaze and was at a loss for words.
Finally, he looked up, only to find that things were not as he had imagined.
Her hands were clutching the thin sheet of paper, but her expression hadn’t changed.
Upon learning the truth for herself, she was utterly unfazed.
"So the real report was with you all along."
Quentin Grant looked at her. "Nora."
She folded it back up. "Hm?"
"I’m finding a doctor for you. You’re going to be okay."
She sat on the edge of the bed and finally spoke her true feelings. "I know you wouldn’t just stand by and watch die. Since you won’t give up on , how could I bear to leave you? We’ve been through so much to finally be together."
Quentin Grant’s eyes instantly turned red. "There will be news soon. I need you to stay by my side, healthy and well, for a lifeti."
Nora Ainsworth nodded and smiled faintly. "Okay, I promise you."
*
When Jean Grant woke up in the morning, Marlon Marshall was asleep beside her. She had no idea when he had co back.
Without waking him, she went downstairs.
Mrs. Marshall was eating breakfast. Usually, when she saw Jean in the morning, she acted as if she wasn’t there. Today, however, she actually spoke up.
"Jean, sit down. I have sothing to tell you."
Jean Grant sat down in front of her own breakfast and started eating, her head lowered. "What is it?"
Her voice was distant and indifferent.
Mrs. Marshall gave an awkward laugh. "Well, it’s like this... I’m a little short on cash right now. Could you give so money?"
A mocking smile touched Jean Grant’s lips. "Five million, gone in three or four months. Is this my famously frugal mother-in-law? For an ordinary family, five million could last a lifeti, but you burn through it so quickly. I’d love to know, who on earth can afford to support you?"
Mrs. Marshall’s expression soured. "I’m just asking for a little money. Is it necessary to lecture like this?"
Jean Grant said coldly, "I want to know just how much this ’little money’ you’re talking about is. Let’s hear it."
Mrs. Marshall hesitated for a mont, then said, "Just give a million for now."
Jean Grant picked up her glass of milk, drained it in one gulp, then wiped her mouth and stood up. "A million? Why don’t you give a million? You say it so casually, like it’s nothing. You want money so you can go support your toy boy?"
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