Chapter 509 Do Not Disturb Her
The moment the screen went dark, a tear fell onto the phone case, leaving a clear trail on its smooth surface.
George gripped his cane tightly, his knuckles turning white from the pressure. He headed towards the elevator, the sound of his cane tapping against the floor echoing through the empty hallway.
She must be in Charles' room. He had to explain everything face-to-face!
This thought screamed in his mind, driving him to quicken his pace.
As George rounded the corner, a tall figure blocked his path. The faint scent of cologne immediately revealed the person's identity.
"George, long time no see," Michael's voice was gentle yet distant, as if deliberately maintaining a subtle sense of detachment.
George halted, his expression instantly turning cold. "Move."
Michael remained motionless, his gaze behind the glasses carrying a hint of condescending pity. "Emma is really upset right now. You'd better not disturb her."
"This has nothing to do with you," George's voice was as cold as ice.
"How could it have nothing to do with me?" Michael chuckled, a hint of sarcasm in his laughter. "What she needs now is someone who can provide her with a stable life, not a blind man who can't even take care of himself."
George's fingers tightened sharply, his knuckles turning white from the force, and his cane emitted a faint creaking sound under the strain.
"Besides," Michael continued, his tone casual yet piercing, "the Russell Group is now in my hands. You can't even provide her with basic material security. What right do you have to hold her back from her future?"
The air seemed to freeze for a moment, even time itself seemed to pause.
George's Adam's apple bobbed slightly. Finally, he slowly released his grip on the cane, his voice low and hoarse. "You're right."
That night, Emma's phone vibrated on the nightstand.
The screen lit up, and a message from George appeared: [Tomorrow at 9 AM, see you in court. The divorce papers are ready.]
The brief text was like a sharp knife, mercilessly piercing her heart.
Emma stared at the screen, tears silently falling and soaking into the pillow, leaving a visible mark.
On the other side of the city, George sat alone in a dark room.
Occasionally, car headlights outside cast fleeting shadows on the wall. His eyes, which could still perceive faint light, were now plunged into complete darkness.
His world had turned utterly dark with this decision.
In the ophthalmologist's office, the glaring examination light slowly dimmed, leaving a room filled with an uncomfortable pale light.
The air was thick with the smell of disinfectant, mixed with the metallic scent of medical instruments.
"Mr. Russell, we've completed all the necessary tests." The doctor adjusted his gold-rimmed glasses, his eyes behind the lenses showing clear confusion.
"Including retinal exams, OCT scans, visual field tests, and brain MRIs, all results show no organic damage to your eyes."
George sat quietly in the examination chair, his long fingers unconsciously stroking the cane that had accompanied him for so long.
The titanium frame of his smart glasses gleamed coldly under the office lights, perfectly concealing his unfocused pupils.
"Retina, optic nerve, visual cortex..." The doctor flipped through the thick report, the paper rustling softly. "All structures are completely normal, and functional tests are within standard ranges."
"Then why," George's voice was low and hoarse, as if he hadn't spoken in a long time, "can't I see?"
The doctor removed his glasses and wiped the lenses with the corner of his coat, seemingly buying time to think.
The office fell silent, with only the ticking of the wall clock breaking the quiet.
"From a medical standpoint..." The doctor put his glasses back on, his tone cautious. "This condition is likely psychogenic blindness."
"Psychogenic?" George raised his head slightly, though he couldn't see, the gesture made it seem like he was looking directly at the doctor.
"Yes, psychogenic visual impairment." The doctor opened a medical manual, pointing to a page.
"It's a visual dysfunction caused by psychological factors rather than organic damage. It usually occurs after a patient experiences significant mental trauma or extreme emotional upheaval."
The doctor tapped the page lightly. "Your physiological indicators are completely normal, but your brain's visual processing function is temporarily suppressed by strong psychological factors. Simply put, your eyes can see, but your brain refuses to accept these visual signals."
A bitter smile tugged at George's lips, a subtle change that didn't escape the doctor's notice.
"This condition requires professional psychological intervention." The doctor closed the manual, his tone becoming professional and firm.
"Our hospital's head of psychology, Dr. Salazar, has considerable expertise in this area. She's handled many similar cases."
At the mention of "Wanda," George's brow furrowed slightly, and his fingers tightened around the cane.
But considering his current situation, he eventually nodded, his voice barely audible. "Okay."
The doctor sighed in relief and picked up the desk phone.
Before dialing, he confirmed one last time. "Shall I schedule an appointment with Dr. Salazar for tomorrow?"
After receiving George's consent, the doctor pressed the call button. "Dr. Salazar, this is the ophthalmology department. I have a patient with psychogenic blindness, a rather unique case, and I might need your assistance..."
Meanwhile, in the head psychologist's office on the top floor of the hospital.
Wanda elegantly placed the phone receiver down, her meticulously painted red lips curling into a meaningful smile.
She stood up, her high heels clicking crisply on the marble floor as she walked towards the wooden file cabinet against the wall.
She opened the bottom drawer with practiced ease, retrieving a silver metal box. The box opened with a soft sound, revealing a brand-new patient file inside.
George's name was prominently marked with a red label on the cover, standing out among the ordinary files.
Wanda picked up a pen and carefully wrote down the appointment time for tomorrow in her schedule.
Her handwriting was elegant and sharp, much like her current expression, filled with determined resolve.
In the courthouse lobby, the early summer sunlight streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows, illuminating the polished marble floor to a mirror-like shine.
The air carried a faint scent of disinfectant, mixed with the smell of printer ink.
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