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Chapter 9: The Ghost of the Past

Autor: SoleReign
last update Fecha de publicación: 2026-04-20 12:44:57

The following morning—Day Six—was the quietest the Garrison household had been in years. Arthur was already downstairs in the kitchen when Evelyn slowly made her way to the breakfast nook. Instead of his usual sharp business suit, he was wearing a simple dark sweater and jeans. It made him look less like the formidable CEO of Garrison Enterprises and more like a man who hadn’t slept in forty-eight hours.

Arthur was staring at a bowl of fruit as if it were a complex financial report. He looked
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  • The 100-Day Goodbye   Chapter 15: The Unspoken Boundary

    By afternoon, the rain had completely stopped, leaving the terrace damp and smelling of wet stone. True to his schedule, Dr. Julian Aris arrived at precisely noon. He carried a fresh medical kit and a folder of updated charts, stepping into the living room with the familiar, no-nonsense air that Evelyn had known for years.Arthur met him in the hallway, his sleeves rolled up, looking tired but alert. "She had a rough morning. My mother sent her lawyer here. There was a lot of arguing before she woke up."Julian stopped, his hand resting on his medical bag. He looked Arthur up and down, his eyes hard. "An argument? Arthur, I told you her respiratory system can’t handle stress right now. High blood pressure accelerates the fluid buildup in her lungs.""I know," Arthur said, his voice dropping. "I stopped it. I sent him away. But she heard some of it.""Then make sure it doesn't happen again," Julian said bluntly. He bypassed Arthur and walked straight toward the library, where Evelyn wa

  • The 100-Day Goodbye   Chapter 14: The Bitter Tea

    The kitchen was remarkably quiet the following morning. Claire was sitting at the island, typing furiously on her laptop, while Arthur was carefully measuring out coffee grounds. He kept his movements precise, almost methodical, as if focusing entirely on the task would keep the rest of the world from crashing down around him. "Marcus texted me," Claire said, not looking up from her screen. "He said you caused a bit of a scene when you walked out of the auction last night. Apparently, Mother looked like she wanted to faint." Arthur poured hot water over the coffee filter. "I don't care how she looked, Claire. I told her I’m taking a leave of absence, and I meant it." "Sarah was there too, wasn't she?" Claire finally looked up, her expression turning sharp. "Marcus mentioned she left right after you did. He said she looked furious." "She won't be coming back," Arthur said, his voice flat. He carried a mug of black coffee over to the island and sat down opposite his sister. "I made

  • The 100-Day Goodbye   Chapter 13: The Mask of the CEO

    The evening of the charity auction arrived with a biting wind that rattled the windowpanes of the sunroom. Arthur stood in front of the full-length mirror in his dressing room, adjusting his cufflinks. He was wearing a classic tuxedo, the fabric sharp and expensive, but he looked at his reflection with a frown. "You look like the man on the cover of a magazine, Artie. Stop scowling," Claire said, leaning against the doorframe. She was already in her loungewear, a contrast to his formal attire. Arthur sighed, tugging at his bow tie. "I feel like a fraud. I'm going there to smile and shake hands while Evelyn is downstairs trying to keep her soup down." "You're going there because she asked you to," Claire reminded him. "She wants the world to see that the Garrison empire isn't crumbling. It gives her peace of mind. Just do the thing, bid on a painting you don't need, and come back." Arthur grabbed his watch from the dresser. "Is she still in the sunroom?" "She’s in the library. She

  • The 100-Day Goodbye   Chapter 12: The Fragile Routine

    Day Eight arrived with a soft, persistent drizzle that blurred the edges of the garden. Inside the Garrison house, a new kind of rhythm was forming. Claire had taken over the kitchen, much to Martha’s amusement, insisting on making a "healing broth" she had learned about in London. Arthur, true to his word, had not left for the office. He spent his morning in the library, though the door remained open so he could hear any movement from the sunroom. Evelyn was back at her easel. She had started to block out the colors of the oak trees—deep greens and charcoal grays. Her hand felt a little steadier today, perhaps because of the new medication Julian had started her on, or perhaps because the house didn’t feel like a battlefield anymore. "You're holding the brush too tight," a voice said from the doorway. Evelyn didn't turn around. She knew it was Arthur by the weight of his footsteps. "I'm trying to make sure it doesn't fall. My fingers feel a bit numb today." Arthur walked into the

  • The 100-Day Goodbye   Chapter 11: The Uninvited Guest

    The sunroom was filled with the smell of fresh oil paint the next morning. True to his word, Arthur had seen to it that a new set of professional-grade supplies arrived before breakfast. Evelyn sat at her easel, a palette of blues and grays resting in her lap. She wasn’t painting yet; she was just looking at the tubes, her fingers brushing over the labels. The quiet was broken by the sound of tires crunching on the gravel driveway. Evelyn stiffened. Arthur had gone to the kitchen to take a business call, but he was back in the room before the doorbell even rang. He looked toward the front of the house, his jaw tightening. "I thought I told the gate to stay closed," he muttered. "Maybe it’s Julian," Evelyn suggested, though she knew it wasn't. Julian didn't drive a car that sounded like a growling beast. Arthur walked to the window and peered out. "It’s not Julian." He headed for the foyer, and Evelyn followed slowly, her curiosity outweighing her fatigue. Through the glass panels

  • The 100-Day Goodbye   Chapter 10: The Color of Memory

    The sunroom was the warmest part of the house, a glass-walled sanctuary that overlooked the sprawling backyard. Arthur had spent the morning moving furniture, clearing a wide space in the center of the room. The old wooden easel stood there now, looking a bit scarred and dusty against the pristine white floorboards. Evelyn stood in the doorway, her hand resting on the frame. She watched Arthur as he struggled with a heavy box of oil paints. He looked out of place in this room—too large, too restless—but he was moving with a carefulness she hadn't seen before. "I think most of these might be dried up," Arthur said, popping open a plastic bin. He held up a tube of cobalt blue that was twisted and shriveled. "I can order new ones. Just tell me the brand." Evelyn walked into the room, her footsteps light. She reached out and took the tube from him. She unscrewed the cap, the dried paint cracking under the pressure. "It’s fine, Arthur. You don't need to buy anything yet. I don't even kn

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