My Fiancé Planned 33 Accidents

The friend sounded surprised. "So you're really resigning yourself to marrying Sylvia? What about that intern under you, Rachel Summers?"

"When Sylvia was sent to my family as a child, my father told me to treat her well. We were meant to get married someday," Victor Rothwell said. "So I took care of her as if she were already my wife. Over time, it became a habit. That is, until I met Rach."

A trace of warmth flickered in his eyes. "Her background is rough, but she never bows her head to adversity. She's strong-willed. I noticed her the moment I first saw her."

"If you like her that much, then go after her," the friend said, clearly baffled.

The air fell silent for several seconds before Victor lowered his gaze. "Sylvia's mother once saved my family. She's my responsibility. Those 33 times were me struggling against it. Now I should shoulder that responsibility."

He paused, his voice softening. "As for Rach, being able to watch her from afar is enough. I don't dare ask for more."

Every word stabbed into Sylvia Frost's heart like a blade. She clung to the wall just to stay upright. Her face felt damp and itchy.

When she reached up, her fingers came away wet. She stopped listening. Staggering, she fled back to her hospital room. Tears streamed down her face without a sound.

She had never imagined that all 33 accidents had been Victor's doing.

The first time, she had been caught in a street fight and stabbed by mistake.

The second time, a snake had bitten her in the garden at home. The venom had nearly killed her.

The third time, Victor had taken her hiking. She had slipped and fallen, spending half a month in the ICU.

…

All of it had been because he did not want to marry her.

Their engagement had been set when Sylvia was 10 years old. At the time, the Rothwell family had been under investigation, facing financial ruin and prison. Her mother, an accountant, had taken responsibility for everything. That was how the Rothwells survived.

Afterward, Walter Rothwell, Victor's grandfather, brought Sylvia into their home and arranged her engagement to Victor as a form of protection.

As she grew up, everyone in the Rothwell family, including Victor, treated her well. They supported everything she did, even the band she played in, something elite circles looked down on.

Because of that, she had always believed they loved each other. She never expected it was all duty, or that his heart belonged to someone else.

The dull ache in her chest sharpened and twisted like a knife. Pain rippled through her entire body and tugged at every injury.

Ten minutes later, Victor came in to clean her wound. When he saw her reddened eyes, he paused. "What is it? Does it hurt again?"

She looked at the concern on his face, and the word "responsibility" echoed in her mind, stabbing until her chest tightened.

Her pain sensitivity was higher than most people's. Even wound cleaning required anesthetic.

Victor picked up the syringe. Just as he was about to inject it, his phone rang. He set the anesthetic down and answered the call.

Her gaze drifted to the cartoon charm hanging from his phone. It stirred an old memory. The charm had been a prize from her band's first competition win. She had happily given it to him. He had tossed it into a drawer without a second glance.

"Too childish," he had said, frowning.

Now, the same kind of cartoon charm hung from his phone. The matching style swayed back and forth, making Sylvia's eyes ache.

In the quiet room, Rachel's voice carried clearly from the phone. "Dr. Rothwell, I ran into a patient here, and I'm not sure how to handle it. Could you come over for a moment?"

The moment she spoke, Sylvia felt the change in Victor's presence. His mood visibly lifted.

"Okay. I'll be right there," he said, his tone light.

She had once thought this was nothing more than care for an intern. Now she understood. Every feeling left a trail.

Victor hung up. His hand passed over the anesthetic and went straight for the instruments.

Agony exploded from the wound and tore through Sylvia's body. She let out a muffled cry as cold sweat poured down her skin and her head spun.

"Vic, you didn't use the anesthetic…" Her voice trembled.

His hands did not slow. Distracted, he said, "It works better this way. Anesthetic interferes with the medication. Just bear with it."

Her body jerked in pain. Her fingers clenched the bedsheet until it nearly tore.

"Vic, can you use the anesthetic? It really hurts," Sylvia pleaded.

"Be good. Hold on. It will be over soon," he said, moving faster.

A few minutes later, the cleaning was finished.

Victor tossed the tools onto the tray.

Sylvia lay collapsed on the bed, barely conscious. In her tilted field of vision, she saw him leaving in a hurry.

Anesthetic did not interfere with the medication at all. He had done it only so he could rush to Rachel. He had not even been willing to wait five minutes for the anesthetic to take effect.

Sylvia's heart twisted violently. Tears slid from the corners of her eyes onto the white sheets. Pain gnawed at her without mercy. At last, her vision went black, and she passed out.