Page 92 of The Ring
If I could dream like that every day, I’d never want to be awake.
But what if it wasn’t a dream?
Unconsciously, one of my hands moved to touch my lips.
“I wouldn’t be so sure about that,” he replies softly.
I look at him, shocked. Does he know something I don’t? Or did Cornelia tell him something?
“I don’t like giving false hope, but at the very least, she doesn’t hate you. If she did, she wouldn’t have tolerated or taken care of your high arse last night. But if you ever hope to get back with her, you need to sort yourself out, because what you’re doing isn’t healthy, nor is it going to mend anything. And you have alotto mend.”
“So should you.” My words aren’t meant as a reproach—it’s the truth. He’s giving me good advice, advice he should heed.
“I know,” he whispers.
I sigh and look outside.
For the first time, we’re both on the same page when it comes to our love lives. We’re both in love with a girl whom we’ve messed up with so badly, dug ourselves into holes so deep we don’t know how to climb out.
At least we’re not alone. Misery loves company, after all.
Chapter 54
Cornelia
“What are you doing here?” I ask Benedict Glounger from my bed as he enters my bedroom.
He had knocked before entering, and I had told him to come in, assuming it was a maid bringing me tea or medicine.
“Receiving this warm welcome,” he says sarcastically, stepping further into the room.
I bite my lower lip, containing a laugh, and shoot him a look, silently telling him to be more serious.
“I wanted to see you. Also I brought my famous chicken soup—it’s being heated as we speak.”
I grab a pillow—one that will definitely be washed before making its way back to my bed—and hurl it at him.
He dodges it with ease.
“You nitwit!” I scold him. “You’re going to get sick, and you have an important audition tomorrow!”
I told him not to come, even though he insisted, because he has a very important audition tomorrow for a film his agent claims is Oscar-worthy.
After returning from Monaco, I got sick. Anthony calledour family doctor, who checked on me. It turned out to be nothing more than a common cold. The doctor suggested giving me an injection, assuring me it would make me feel fine within a few hours, a day at most, but I declined.
For someone whose family not only manufactures the medicine but also the needles and syringes, I’m deeply afraid of them. I much prefer to recover with plain old pills, even if it takes longer.
He reaches the bed, towering over me. “If I get sick, it’s worth it,” he says before leaning in to kiss me. I know I shouldn’t let him—sharing a kiss will only increase the chances of him getting sick—but I can’t bring myself to turn away.
“Fine, but if you get sick, it’s entirely your fault,” I state as he pulls away.
“I will take full responsibility,” he says with a smile. His eyes drift around my room, and land on the bouquet of white peonies, with a single white rose in the centre, sitting in a silver vase on my bedside table. “Who are those from?” He points at them.
He’s picked up on the fact I don’t tend to keep flowers in my bedroom. Whenever he, or anyone else, brings me flowers, I always place them in the living room or in another part of the house—never in my room.
It’s nothing personal; I love flowers. It’s just that flowers can’t really be disinfected or cleaned without wilting, and they grow from the ground, so they’re definitely not clean. I make very few exceptions for things that enter my bedroom without being previously cleaned.
But these flowers? I felt like I had to make an exception for them.
