Chapter 463 Imprisonment
"George!" Emma pounded on the door with all her might, each hit filled with desperation and anger. "Open the door!" Her banging echoed through the silent room, sounding especially harsh.
Outside, there was only silence, broken by George's unnervingly calm breathing.
This calmness only drove her more insane.
Emma was losing her grip on reality. She began to hammer the door with all her strength, her fists quickly becoming red and swollen, but she seemed oblivious to the pain. Pain was insignificant to her now.
"I need to get out! I need to leave!" she screamed, her voice filled with hysterical despair.
She started smashing things in the room. First, the lamp on the nightstand, which shattered on the floor with a loud crash. The delicate crystal lampshade broke into pieces, the shards scraping across the floor, echoing her torn heart.
Next, she tore through the clothes in the wardrobe, ripping the fine garments to shreds as if this could release the long-suppressed anger inside her. Each piece of clothing became an outlet for her rage, tearing not just fabric but the chains around her heart.
"How dare you imprison me!" she roared, her voice nearly hoarse.
Books from the shelf were thrown against the wall one by one, making dull thuds. Pages scattered everywhere, mirroring her fragmented sanity. The room was littered with pieces, like her shattered soul.
George sat outside the door, quietly listening to her madness. His silence was an acknowledgment of her pain.
Emma turned to the vanity, smashing makeup products. All were hurled at the wall. The colorful liquids and fragments mixed together, reflecting her chaotic and broken mind.
For three hours, she raged. Screaming, crying, breaking things, as if she wanted to tear the entire room apart. Each scream was a protest against fate, each broken item a reflection of her inner turmoil.
George remained in the same position outside, silently accompanying her.
When Emma finally collapsed from exhaustion, the room was a wreck. Shards and torn clothes littered the floor, resembling a broken world.
George sighed softly, "Are you tired?"
Emma had no strength left to respond.
The night passed in silence.
In the morning, George opened the door, carrying a carefully prepared breakfast. Eggs, sandwiches, milk—each item was Emma's favorite. The dishes were arranged meticulously, showing his care.
Emma noticed the blisters on his hand, a result of him burning himself while making breakfast. The red, swollen skin was a stark reminder. He could have had the servant do it, but he insisted on preparing it himself.
On this vast island, Emma didn't believe they were alone.
"Eat something," he said in a gentle, almost pleading tone, full of hope and caution.
Emma turned her back to him, unmoving. "If you want to eat, eat it yourself. I won't touch a single thing you make!"
George placed the tray on the nightstand and sat gently on the bed. "If you don't eat, I won't either," he said, his voice firm but tender.
Emma stayed silent all morning. The food on the tray gradually cooled, the steam slowly dissipating. George, true to his word, didn't touch a bite, matching her silence with his own.
Two hours later, George began to feel intense stomach pain. He had a severe stomach condition, and fasting caused unbearable agony. The pain surged through his body. He clutched his stomach, cold sweat beading on his forehead, teeth clenched, yet he still refused to eat.
By noon, George's face was deathly pale. Cold sweat soaked his hair, and his body trembled violently, on the verge of collapse. He tried to stay standing but gradually lost strength. Suddenly, he could no longer hold on and collapsed to the floor, unconscious.
Emma heard the thud and instinctively turned around. Seeing George on the floor, she hesitated. His pale face and trembling eyelashes made her heart tighten. After a long internal struggle, she finally overcame her resistance and cautiously approached him.
She found his stomach medicine in the first aid kit and carefully took out the pills. George was still unconscious, his mouth tightly shut, breathing weak.
Emma tried to pry his jaw open but found that even in a coma, George instinctively clenched his teeth. She sighed softly, hesitating.
She didn't want to see him suffer from his stomach condition, but she also didn't want to use an overly intimate method to help him. After a long internal struggle, she decided to crush the pills and mix them into a liquid.
Taking a spoon, she carefully brought it to George's lips. She whispered, "George, wake up."
But George remained unresponsive, his lips tightly shut. Emma frowned, realizing that using a spoon alone wouldn't work. She decided to hold the medicine in her mouth and use her lips and tongue to open George's teeth, transferring the medicine directly.
The liquid slowly flowed into George's mouth. He frowned slightly, seemingly resisting the unfamiliar taste. Emma held her breath, nervously watching his every reaction, afraid he might have any discomfort.
Gradually, George began to swallow, his throat moving slightly.
Slowly, his complexion improved. The previously pale cheeks regained some color, and his furrowed brows relaxed. He let out a soft groan, his body no longer trembling violently, and his breathing steadied.
Emma sighed in relief. She realized George needed food, his weak body requiring nourishment, so she decided to cook herself.
In the kitchen, she skillfully washed and chopped vegetables.
Minestrone Soup was George's favorite and her specialty. Crisp carrots were cut into even pieces, each slice precise as if measured. The water ratio was perfect.
In the pot, the soup began to simmer. Tomatoes and carrots slowly blended, the color turning a rich red. The unique aroma filled the kitchen, enveloping the space in warmth.
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