Chapter 482 Jealous
"His mental illness is all an act," Anne retorted.
Even if it were real, it had nothing to do with her.
She didn't have any psychological issues—he was the one with the iron will.
He could stop trying to pin this on her.
Having seen enough, she turned to leave.
But Louis called after her, "He once loved and cared for you deeply. How can you be so heartless?"
Anne barely knew Louis. He was naturally quiet and cold, rarely speaking.
If you tried to greet him, he'd ignore you. Say too much, and you'd earn one of his icy stares.
She truly hadn't expected that one day, he'd be here trying to reconcile her with Willard.
"You should focus on your own problems," she said.
His own love life was a complete disaster—what right did he have to meddle in hers?
Anne wore her emotions on her sleeve, never bothering to hide them.
Louis could read the changes in her expression and roughly guess what she was thinking about him.
How strange that someone so transparent had driven Willard to this point.
With Willard's cunning, winning her over should have been child's play. Besides, Anne had genuinely liked him back then.
He was wasting his time trying to play peacemaker. Frankly, Willard deserved what he got.
No wonder no one was taking Willard's side anymore.
"He made mistakes later, but before you confessed, wasn't he good to you?" Louis pressed on.
Louis still needed Willard's help.
Francis and Jerry had both shut him out. Elissa and Hope were even worse—knowing what he'd done, they wouldn't even acknowledge his existence.
Anne might be his only way in.
"The Larson family never mistreated you. When you needed help, they spared no effort," he continued. "If you hadn't insisted on running away to such a distant place, with their protection, you never would have encountered that incident. And even if you had, they could have handled it immediately."
Anne was stunned. She'd never heard Louis say this much before. Even during medical consultations, he was always brief and to the point.
"Do you know why his injury keeps refusing to heal?" he asked.
Anne didn't want to know. She didn't want to discuss it further, so she simply walked away.
Louis turned around to find Willard's eyes open, completely lucid.
He checked Willard's temperature—still running a high fever. Yet somehow he hadn't been delirious.
"Are you going to treat it or not?" Louis asked.
Willard closed his eyes, his face gaunt with illness, his lips cracked and peeling. His voice carried deep exhaustion. "Just keep me alive."
Louis obliged, doing only basic wound cleaning without IV fluids, relying on physical cooling methods to bring down the fever. He let it drag on indefinitely.
"Ma'am." Quinton knocked on Anne's bedroom door. "Are you in? Your sister is calling on video."
Anne immediately opened the door. "What did you say?"
Quinton handed her his phone. Anne quickly took it, seeing Elissa's face on the screen, and cried out excitedly, "Elissa!"
Her tears started flowing again—an old habit.
Elissa understood this quirk of hers by now but still offered comfort. "Don't cry. Tell me what's wrong, and I'll handle it. Just say you want to come home, and I'll bring you back immediately."
Anne shook her head. "I'm fine, Elissa. Don't worry about me. I have everything I need here—food, drink, and it's not hot at all. The temperature is perfect. I've taken lots of beautiful photos to show you when I get back."
Elissa knew Anne was trying not to worry her. "Anne, there's nothing you can't tell me."
Anne wiped away her tears. "I'm really okay. Take care of yourself and rest well. I'll come back when you give birth."
By then, the wager would be over. If Willard tried to go back on his word or pull any tricks, she'd have ways to make him let her go.
"Don't fight with Francis. This isn't his fault—I chose to stay here willingly. Willard and I have a bet, and we'll settle things when the time comes."
Elissa nodded. "I can let you handle this yourself, but promise me you won't get hurt or sacrifice yourself unnecessarily. If it becomes impossible, just give up. I'll be your safety net."
"Okay," Anne agreed.
The sisters talked for a long time, until Elissa grew drowsy and they ended the call.
Anne returned the phone to Quinton and closed her door.
Quinton stood there thinking he'd probably been caught in the crossfire—guilt by association.
Well, he was already crushed between them anyway.
What did it matter now?
For several consecutive days, Anne came down to meals prepared by the chef. She hadn't seen Willard anywhere.
She couldn't quite identify her feelings about this, only that the food didn't taste as good anymore.
When Quinton reported to Willard, he mentioned that Anne was eating less and seemed to be in poor spirits.
"Sir, keeping Ms. Waverly confined here without outside contact—I'm afraid she might become depressed," Quinton said.
Willard didn't even open his eyes, mainly because the fever made them ache, and he couldn't be bothered.
"Didn't I give her a camera?" he asked.
Quinton replied honestly, "The lady does take photos every day, but there's only so much on this island. She's probably photographed everything by now. There are other islands nearby—should I take her to visit them? Don't worry, she definitely couldn't escape on her own."
Willard exhaled slowly. "Watch her, don't let anything happen to her. Everything else is up to you."
Quinton tested the waters. "Does that include if she wants to leave?"
Predictably, he received an icy glare in response.
Not wanting to end up in solitary confinement, Quinton quickly made his escape.
Willard's illness dragged on for over eight months. The burns on his body kept festering repeatedly.
To prevent serious infection and tissue death, Louis stopped indulging his self-destructive behavior and began systematic treatment. With careful medication and IV therapy, Willard showed rapid improvement.
To prevent him from torturing himself again over Anne, Louis actually restrained him.
Willard wasn't someone who could be easily tied down, but one sentence from Louis made him compliant.
Louis had said, "If you want to die, go ahead. I'll make sure Anne gives you a proper send-off. Once you're nothing but ashes, I'll introduce her to some promising young men. You're welcome."
Willard's complete recovery took another month.
Anne, bored out of her mind, had started planting trees. The climate here was perpetually spring-like—perfect for growing anything. But she only wanted pear trees.
When Quinton went to find saplings, he discovered that the Myles family had the best ones. They were specially cultivated to be hardy and produce pure white, fragrant blossoms.
Getting them wasn't easy—he nearly got caught by Lyndon. Actually, Lyndon had noticed but knew the saplings were for Anne. Since Elissa had said not to interfere, he stayed out of it. He could always deal with Willard later.
While Anne was diligently digging holes, Willard watched from upstairs through binoculars. He still couldn't handle direct sunlight or wind.
Louis stood beside him, mocking, "Your martyr act doesn't seem to be working."
Willard's lips pressed into a hard line, cold and sharp. If this approach wasn't working, he'd try something new. There was still plenty of time.
"My schemes may be useless, but at least I'm better off than someone who can't even see the person they want," Willard shot back.
Willard continued hitting where it hurt, "Besides, you're not the only one who could treat my condition. Yet you came running the moment you heard I was sick. You need something from me, don't you? Too bad—I won't help you."
Louis had already hit dead ends everywhere. Being called out so bluntly nearly shattered his carefully maintained cool facade.
"Francis and the others, fine—we were never that close anyway. But how long have we known each other? You won't help?" he said. "I even tried talking to Anne for you."
Willard wasn't taking the bait. "No one can help with your situation with Isla. I can't arrange for her transfer to Seaside City right now. You'd have better luck working on Francis—that might actually lead somewhere."
"If I could get Francis's help, would I be here talking to you?" Louis retorted.
"That's your problem," Willard replied. "Who told you to force yourself on her? She was just a girl, barely eighteen, scared and disgusted by you—that was perfectly normal."
Louis's usually sharp eyes clouded with pain. "I lost my head back then. I didn't mean to..."
"I've said those same words," Willard put down the binoculars. "You can see how well that worked out for me."
Louis considered this. "Maybe I should try the martyr approach too?"
Willard reached for his water glass, pausing mid-sip when he heard this suggestion. He drained the glass before responding, "Isla would probably celebrate if you died."
With every avenue blocked, Louis had none of his usual composed, aloof bearing. He slumped to the floor, running his hands through his hair in defeat.
Willard offered him a cigarette. Louis declined.
"Right, you're a doctor. You don't touch carcinogens," Willard's voice dripped with sarcasm.
Louis had smoked before, but he'd quit during his most troubled times. Without cigarettes to dull the anxiety, his longing for Isla wouldn't grow wild and uncontrolled. The willpower required to quit had helped him bury those emotions deep.
"Wallowing in self-pity here won't help," Willard stubbed out his cigarette and settled into his chair. "Why do you need closure anyway?"
"Then why do you need closure?" Louis countered.
"Our situations are different," Willard explained. "Isla may never have had feelings for you, but Anne genuinely liked me once. And I never forced myself on her—I was just cold for three years. Later I lost control and crossed some lines, but even then, I never actually... well, I never went all the way."
Louis couldn't believe it. "You tied her to a bed and did nothing?"
"You think I'm an animal like you?"
Louis actually laughed—a rare display of emotion, though it was ice-cold. "The pot calling the kettle black."
After three days of Anne's tree-planting project, Willard reappeared. The cooking duties transferred from the chef back to him.
Though Anne resented his presence, she couldn't explain why eating his food improved her mood. Somehow it tasted better than the chef's cooking.
"Because the chef is just doing a job—processing ingredients into delicious food according to procedure," Willard said. "But when I cook for you, it's infused with my love."
Anne suddenly lost her appetite. She really needed to work on her poker face—everyone could read her thoughts.
"When the pear trees bloom, I'll make you pear crumble myself, with poached pears—your favorites."
Anne remained silent, feeling there was no point in engaging. Otherwise, he'd definitely think she still had feelings for him.
Willard didn't push further. For the next several days, even though they sat at the same table, they ate in silence.
Anne finally finished planting all her saplings. Now she just had to wait for them to bloom—though she probably wouldn't be here to see it. She hoped these pear trees would flourish in this place.
"Ma'am." Quinton arrived with an evening gown. "Sir says there's a reception tonight, and he'd like to request your company."
Anne refused immediately.
Quinton tried again, "There's also an auction with many interesting items. Wouldn't you like to find gifts for your sister and little nephew?"
The mention of her sister and nephew made Anne waver. Elissa loved unique things, but in her condition, she couldn't go out collecting them herself. This was Anne's chance.
But she didn't want to attend with Willard.
"Ma'am, if I were you, I'd go," Quinton said.
Anne ignored him—he was on Willard's side anyway.
Quinton's mouth twitched as he pressed on, "Since he broke your heart, you should make him spend money on you. Consider it revenge, getting some justice."
What justice existed in this world?
Willard's status and position meant he looked down on everyone from above. It also meant he was fire, and countless moths died around him.
She might have had better access than others, but she was still just a moth, not a butterfly. She was destined for the same tragic end.
But in the end, emotion won over reason. She changed into the gown and accompanied Willard to the reception.
The host was the island's owner—a girl with violet eyes, beautiful as a porcelain doll.
When she saw Willard, she immediately lifted her skirts and ran to him for a greeting kiss. Willard declined.
He spoke to her in fluent local language. Anne couldn't understand and didn't need to.
Even if this girl liked Willard or had some romantic history with him, it was none of her concern.
She was here for the auction.
"Mr. Larson, so you like this type of girl?" the hostess said.
"She's the only one I want, in every way," Willard replied.
The girl laughed. "I didn't think someone as controlled and composed as you would make such suggestive remarks."
Willard's lips curved slightly as he clinked glasses with her. "You don't really know me."
The girl's violet eyes held undisguised affection. "Then would you give me a chance to get to know you better?"
Willard pulled Anne close by the waist. "Sorry," he said.
Anne had been about to pull away when she realized his intention—he was using her as a shield to ward off unwanted attention.
"Don't let people misunderstand our relationship," she told Willard. "We're going to go our separate ways eventually. If you need a shield, find someone else."
The hostess laughed. "Mr. Larson, your lover is quite amusing."
Anne pushed away from Willard and went to channel her frustration into eating. She headed for the dessert table.
Willard exchanged a few more words with the hostess before coming to find her.
"Jealous?" he asked.
Anne was completely bewildered and almost rolled her eyes at him.
Then, thinking he might misinterpret that reaction, she decided to play mute instead.
"This one's good." Willard added another piece to her plate. "I have no relationship with her. I'll explain later."
Anne couldn't help herself—she gave him that eye roll after all. "You don't need to explain anything to me."
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