Chapter 620: Chapter 620: She was Bullied to Death by Him
She lowered her voice, “Doctor Delaney, is there really no hope for Mr. Cheney’s leg…?”
“There’s some malfunction in the neural system, I’m afraid he’ll have to spend his life in a wheelchair,” sighed Doctor Delaney.
“Is it serious? Has he suffered any other injuries?”
Jasmine Yale didn’t dare to ask Sylvan Cheney face to face, knowing he would definitely avoid such topics.
“He also got a severe blow to the head, and he might suffer from insomnia during rainy or humid weather. Miss Yale, you must inform me if anything happens,” Doctor Delaney warned.
“Miss Yale, it falls upon you to take care of Mr. Cheney now. I will visit periodically.”
“Thank you, Doctor Delaney.”
After she saw Doctor Delaney out, Jasmine Yale stood at the doorway of the villa, dazed.
So, Sylvan Cheney had suffered severe injuries.
Though he had made some recovery, he could never be the old Sylvan Cheney again.
The cold wind blew her hair strands. She stood in the wind for a long time.
Under the gloomy sky, a faintly shattered mark was evident in her eyes. It resembled a crack in an ice cube, radiating, spreading gradually.
Only after a while did she turn back to the living room.
Her belongings had been moved into Sylvan Cheney’s bedroom by a maid.
He was sitting alone by the window in the bedroom, smoking.
When Jasmine Yale walked in, she saw his side profile, veiled by the smoke, handsome yet stern.
“You know, smoking isn’t good for you,” Jasmine reminded him.
She squatted down and started tidying up.
His bedroom was spacious enough, and there was an empty wardrobe as if meant for her.
Sylvan Cheney quirked his lips, stubbed out his cigarette, and turned to look at her.
She looked obedient as she squatted on the floor, tidying up, just like a gentle kitten who had withdrawn her sharp claws.
Today was the eighth day of the lunar new year.
He remembered the day she turned twenty, also the eighth day of the lunar year, when she was squatting on the floor packing up.
That day, he snapped at her for no apparent reason.
She cried her eyes out due to his mistreatment.
He looked at her, his burning gaze landing on her face.
She looked up and met his gaze.
She gave a small smile, “I’ll be done in a bit. Your room is quite large. I’ll sleep on the sofa henceforth.”
“Why would you sleep on the sofa when the bed is so big?” Sylvan Cheney complained.
“That won’t be appropriate,” Jasmine refused, “I toss and turn a lot in my sleep. You won’t get any rest.”
“Are you troubled about your sleeping habits or are you afraid that I might take advantage of you?”
“No,” Jasmine denied.
“Don’t worry, I won’t do anything to you. I don’t have the strength for that,” Sylvan spoke lightly.
The cigarette between his fingers burned slowly. His voice carried a hint of melancholy.
This melancholy, just like the lilacs in the spring rain, spread through the air, filling every space.
“Then we’ll do as you say,” Jasmine compromised, a lump in her throat.
Sylvan Cheney rarely spoke to her in such a tone. This didn’t seem like him.
The once powerful Mr. Cheney has fallen to such a state.
Jasmine understood him.
A sense of sorrow engulfed her.
Like rainwater, it converged into a river, or like mist, encompassing everything in sight.
Jasmine Yale hung all her clothes in the wardrobe and arranged the toiletries on the table.
As she finished, Sylvan Cheney took out another cigarette from the pack.
Jasmine Yale went over, snatched the unlit cigarette and the pack out of his hand.
Sylvan Cheney frowned.
“I told you smoking is bad!” She chided him, as he used to admonish her, “Considering your health, you should stay away from smoking and drinking.”
Sylvan Cheney quietly chuckled.