Chapter 216

On his way downstairs, Clifford ran into his father, Wallace.

At the sight of his son, Wallace's expression soured.

"I heard you drove your mother to slam her head into a tree this afternoon."

"It was a misunderstanding," Clifford said evenly.

"Hmph. A misunderstanding," Wallace scoffed, shaking his sleeve. "It seems to me you're getting more arrogant by the day."

He shot Clifford a cold glance before brushing past him and heading upstairs. His gaze held none of the warmth a father should have for a son; it was, as always, utterly frigid. Wallace had been stingy with praise his entire life. When the company was thriving, he never offered a single word of encouragement. Now that it was in trouble, he blamed Clifford for everything, his face a perpetual mask of disapproval.

Clifford remained impassive, watching his father's retreating back for a moment before turning and walking out of the house.

He went to the back where the maids were still kneeling on the broken glass, their faces contorted in pain. When they saw him approach, they began to beg. "Sir, please have mercy on us! We were just following orders! It wasn't our fault..."

"Yes, sir, please let us go!"

"Kneel," Clifford said, his voice flat. He turned and walked away, ignoring their desperate pleas.

Latisha couldn't sleep that night. Her knee throbbed, her face stung, and by midnight, a fiery pain had set in. The heat from the blankets made the wounds itch unbearably.

She finally threw off the covers and opened a window, letting the cool night air soothe the burning sensation in her knee.

The consequence of this was predictable: she woke up with a cold. There was no fever this time, just a relentless runny nose.

Clifford hadn't come home.

Dragging her aching leg, she slowly herw

made her way downstairs and was

surprised to find breakfast on the table. A note was tucked under a small pot, written in Clifford's familiar scrawl: [Eat, rest. Don't go out.]

As if she could go anywhere in her condition.

Latisha sat down and tasted a spoonful of the soup. It was from a restaurant.

After eating, she settled onto the sofa to watch television. Ever since Clifford had started promoting Yesenia, her face was

everywhere in commercials

entertainment news about her collaborations with other stars.

Latisha flipped through the channels until she found the cartoon network, the only place she could escape that irritating face.

In the afternoon, the doorbell rang. Her first instinct was to get up, but she

remembered Clifford's warning and sank back onto the couch.

A moment later, her phone buzzed with a text from Dr. Harmon: [Mrs. Lambert, are

you home? Mr. Lambert asked me to come check on your injuries.]

Latisha pursed her lips and went to open the door.

"Good afternoon, Mrs. Lambert," the doctor greeted her with a smile. Latisha

nodded and stepped aside to let him in.

"What happened this time?" Dr. Harmon asked as he walked in, carrying his medical

bag. "You really can't keep putting your body through this."

He set his bag down by the sofa and

took a closer look at her face. The

swelling had gone down but the

Satches were still vivid against the

reddened skin.

Assuming Clifford was responsible, his expression darkened. "Mr. Lambert really

has... I think it's time I explained your full condition to him!"

Fed up, the doctor pulled out his phone to call Clifford.