Chapter 3

3

A wave of overwhelming grief crashed over me.

I watched the blood trickle down my knuckles to the tips of my fingers, dripping onto the floorboards, while silent tears rolled down my cheeks.

Feeling a flicker of guilt, Celeste rushed over with a first-aid kit to bandage the cut.

"Garrett, let me take you to the ER."

"Okay."

It hurt too much to say anything else.

I pulled open the passenger door of her car, but Celeste shouted in panic, "Don't sit there!"

It was too late.

As I pulled the door shut, a sharp razor blade hidden inside the inner handle sliced deeply into my right fingers.

The fresh bandage came undone, and blood gushed out uncontrollably.

The sight of the crimson blood irritated Celeste, and she scratched her head in frustration.

"I told you not to sit there! Harrison is a germaphobe, and he hates anyone else sitting in my passenger seat."

"Don't blame me for getting hurt. You brought this on yourself by not listening to me! I yelled so loudly, yet you acted completely deaf."

No one ever rode in her passenger seat except me, which meant Harrison had planted that blade intentionally to assert his territory.

Surprisingly, I didn't feel heartbroken anymore.

I just felt tired.

"Sure. It's not your fault."

I wrapped my hand tightly in napkins, barely slowing down the bleeding. "Can you just drive me to the hospital?"

Seeing that I didn't throw a tantrum, Celeste gave me a suspicious look.

Whenever Harrison was involved in the past, I would fight tooth and nail to make her choose me.

Now, none of that mattered.

All I knew was that my hand was throbbing with excruciating pain.

Celeste sensed the change in me, but she only saw it as a relief.

"Well... why don't you get in the back?" she tested cautiously.

"Fine."

I nodded and moved to step out, but Celeste's face darkened, and she grabbed my arm roughly.

"Do you seriously think I'm your private chauffeur?"

She shoved me back into the seat and drove off with a scowl on her face.

While the doctor was cleaning and stitching my wound at the hospital, Celeste's phone rang.

She answered with one hand, and Harrison's gentle voice filtered through the speaker. "Celeste, it's snowing outside! Come join me to watch the snow fall!"

"I'll be right there."

A warm smile instantly bloomed across Celeste's face.

She turned on her heel to leave, but the doctor stopped her. "Sir's tendons are exposed. You need to help him hold―"

"He's not crippled. Can't he hold his own hand up?"

Celeste furrowed her brows in disgust.

"You're a grown man in your thirties. Stop pretending you're a fragile boy. Look at the wrinkles on your face―they're deep enough to trap a fly."

She turned around and strode out without looking back.

My injured hand was dropped heavily onto the metal tray, making me gasp in agony.

I ignored her cruel words and used my left hand, which was hooked up to an IV drip, to prop up my bleeding right arm.

She hadn't even bothered to ask why I needed an IV drip for a hand wound, completely missing the doctor's remark about my severe anemia.

The doctor gave me a sympathetic look and called a nurse over to assist.

In that quiet moment, my nose stung, and tears blurred my vision.