Chapter 128: Chapter 128: Mrs. Hawthorne Is Waiting for You in the Dining Room
At this moment, Ann Vaughn’s head brushed past his fingertips, her body weakly tilted to one side, and then "thud," she collapsed to the ground.
Cyrus Hawthorne’s narrow eyes slightly narrowed, and his jade-like fingertips suddenly stiffened.
In just three hours, the private doctor was called over and left, only to be urgently summoned back again, frustrated from running back and forth endlessly.
He initially thought something had happened to Cynthia Vaughn again, but he didn’t expect it to be Ann Vaughn.
She lay on the large bed in the master bedroom, her small face as pale as if translucent, her slender brows furrowed, lips pressed tight, unsure if she had a nightmare or was frightened by something.
Her entire body was constantly breaking out in cold sweats, as if she had just been pulled out of water.
"Young Madam is shocked, has a fever, and the fetus seems a bit unstable," the private doctor said after examining Ann Vaughn, "But I can handle the fever and the safety of the fetus..."
"As for the psychological issues that could trigger such fear and illness in Young Madam, you’ll need to consult a psychologist."
Upon hearing this, Cyrus Hawthorne’s thin lips pressed slightly, his narrow eyes flashing with obscurity, "She might have severe claustrophobia and stayed in the confinement room for three hours."
The private doctor was a bit dumbfounded upon hearing this, "Three hours?! Sir, are you joking?"
Even with his limited knowledge of psychology, a place like a confinement room, three hours, or even ten minutes, would overwhelm anyone.
He, a grown man, wouldn’t claim he could stay there for an hour. For Young Madam, who suffers from claustrophobia, her mental defenses might already be shattered.
Yet, knowing this was an issue between the couple, the private doctor wisely refrained from saying much more, only remarking, "Sir, since the Young Madam is pregnant, it’s not advisable to use medication. I’m not well-positioned to perform physical cooling, so you should do it."
"How?" Cyrus Hawthorne asked in a low voice, pressing down the odd feelings in his heart, his brows knitting in irritation.
After hearing the private doctor, Auntie Golding volunteered but was dismissed from the room with a single glance from Cyrus Hawthorne.
Although semi-conscious, Ann Vaughn’s mind was fuzzy, her brain feeling as if it were a computer running hot like magma erupting.
Exhausted to her limits, her brain wouldn’t stop, and her body emitted unbearable heat waves, causing her despair.
At that moment, something light and soft brushed across every inch of her skin.
With a pleasantly cool and comforting sensation, like an oasis appearing in a desert, it soothed her feverish body.
But this feeling quickly vanished, and Ann Vaughn was once again plunged into a long, deep darkness, engulfed by crippling fear.
Holding a clean white towel, Cyrus Hawthorne meticulously and gently wiped the sweat off Ann Vaughn’s body.
However, while wiping her face, a teardrop slipped from the corner of her eye and fell on his fingertip.
It was somewhat hot.
Hot enough to make his heart skip a beat.
Cyrus Hawthorne’s narrow eyes roiled like dark waves crashing over hidden reefs, deep and obscure, with a hint of complexity.
He looked down at Ann Vaughn, who didn’t dare to cry out loud even in her sleep, only letting out weak sobs to release her pent-up emotions.
Like a wounded and pitiful little beast, whimpering softly, fearing that a louder sound would attract the attack of other beasts.
This cautious, restrained Ann Vaughn was utterly different from the defiant girl who had once brazenly declared in front of him, as if going all out.
Unlike her usual bright-eyed, confident smile.
Yet still her.
Thinking about this, Cyrus Hawthorne placed the towel aside, tucked Ann Vaughn in again, considering she might still sweat later, he refrained from dressing her.
And at this moment, there wasn’t a hint of amorous intent in his gaze.
Only some suspicion.
Could it really be Ann Vaughn, who is so dedicated to promoting traditional medicine, was responsible for what happened three years ago?
Tick-tock, tick-tock.
Ann Vaughn’s phone, which Cyrus Hawthorne had tossed onto the table, suddenly rang. Cyrus collected his thoughts, picked up the phone, and hung up the incoming call.
The screen returned to the previous SMS page, which Ann Vaughn had recently used.
Contact: Sutton Jennings.
Content: Save me.
This scene caught his eye, and the light in Cyrus Hawthorne’s narrow eyes suddenly darkened, a hint of ridicule flickering at his brow.
-
Three days later.
After three days of recurring high fever and unconsciousness, Ann Vaughn’s condition finally improved, slowly regaining her awareness.
When she opened her eyes, unexpectedly, she saw not the dark and terrifying confinement room, but the ceiling of a servant’s quarters.
Ann Vaughn immediately sat up, her mind still a bit groggy, but fortunately, she felt much better than she had in the confinement room.
But how did she go from the confinement room to the servant’s quarters?
As she was confused, someone suddenly banged on the door.
"Are you up? Mr. Hawthorne wants you downstairs, did you hear that? If you’re up, hurry up and go down!" Auntie Golding’s urging voice came from behind the door.
Ann Vaughn squinted her sleepy eyes, casually smoothing her long black silky hair, then lifted the quilt to get up.
After freshening up and coming downstairs, Ann Vaughn was going to enter the kitchen when Auntie Golding pushed her towards the dining room.
"Mrs. Hawthorne is waiting for you in the dining room. From now on, you don’t need to handle kitchen tasks." Auntie Golding offhandedly said this to her before turning into the kitchen.
Mrs. Hawthorne? Cynthia Vaughn??
Ann Vaughn’s eyes dimmed slightly, her red lips pressed together, then she stepped towards the dining room.
As she entered, Cynthia Vaughn, whose face was covered with layers of powder making her appear fragile and delicate, looked at her, her beautiful eyes full of smugness.
Yet, whether it was due to Ann Vaughn’s words yesterday or something else, she was unusually well-behaved, not taking the initiative to cause trouble.
Cyrus Hawthorne, sitting at the head of the table, slightly lifted his narrow eyes, folded the morning paper he was holding, and casually said to Ann Vaughn, "While Cynthia is staying at the manor, you are to take care of her, and prioritize her preferences and mood."
Ann Vaughn, being skilled in traditional medicine, found this hardly a challenge.
But upon hearing these words, Ann Vaughn’s delicate face changed slightly; she swallowed the resentment in her throat, and with a faint smile, she said, "Sorry, I’m not good at taking care of people, but I’m quite adept at poisoning them."
Cynthia Vaughn’s heart skipped a beat remembering Ann Vaughn’s mysterious medical skills.
She originally didn’t need to fear the wretch, backed by Cyrus Hawthorne’s support and her parents’ pressure on Ann Vaughn.
But since last night, when Ann Vaughn seemed ready to fight her to the death, Cynthia Vaughn inexplicably feared her.
Who knew what terrifying things this wretch might do!
Ann Vaughn naturally noticed Cynthia’s terrified expression, she smirked mockingly and turned to leave.
"Vaughn Clinic."
Suddenly, the words Cyrus Hawthorne uttered, cold and indifferent, fell like a curse, accurately and ruthlessly gripping Ann Vaughn’s lifeline.