Chapter 655 Photo
The bodyguard hesitated for a moment, then pulled out his phone to get the okay from his boss. After getting the green light, he signaled, and four bodyguards spread out in a fan shape, keeping a careful distance as they followed Emma.
Fine sand slipped into Emma's high heels, so she decided to take them off and carry them. Walking barefoot on the beach, the cool touch of the sand helped clear her muddled thoughts. The waves rhythmically crashed against the shore, white foam blossoming and then fading at her feet.
She walked slowly, occasionally stopping to take deep breaths. The bodyguards maintained a distance of about nine feet, ensuring they didn't disturb her while keeping her within sight.
In the distance, a small blue cabin caught Emma's attention. The wind chime at the door tinkled in the breeze, as if inviting passersby. Emma headed straight for it, and the bodyguards immediately followed. "Ms. Stuart, it's time to go back."
"What's the rush?" she said without turning her head. "I haven't finished exploring."
The cabin's sign was faded but still readable: "Ocean Memories." Shell wind chimes hung at the door, gently swaying in the breeze and producing a crisp sound.
Emma, as if guided by some unseen force, pushed open the weathered wooden door. The interior was dimly lit, filled with a faint scent and the musty smell of old paper. Her gaze was immediately drawn to a yellowed old photograph hanging on the wall.
In the photo, a boy and a girl, around seven or eight years old, were collecting shells. The girl had two playful pigtails and wore a floral dress, smiling happily; the boy, with a serious expression, held a handful of shells for her, his eyes gentle and focused. In the corner of the photo, an older boy was chasing a girl with pigtails.
Emma's heart skipped a beat, as if struck by lightning. The boy and girl in the foreground—those eyes, that expression—were unmistakably her and George as children! Her fingers trembled as she reached to take down the frame to examine the two figures in the corner. Those blurry silhouettes felt strangely familiar, yet she couldn't recall where she had seen them.
Just as her fingertips were about to touch the frame, the door was suddenly flung open, crashing against the wall with a loud bang. The lead bodyguard rushed in, followed closely by the other three, crowding the small shop.
"Ms. Stuart, it's too late. We need to go back."
Emma knew this was Michael's warning.
She didn't resist or protest, but obediently followed the bodyguards out like a puppet. Before leaving, she took one last deep look at the photo, as if trying to etch the image into her memory.
On the way back to the car, Emma's gaze inadvertently swept across the other end of the beach. On a hillside not far from the shoreline, a familiar figure stood by a gravestone. The person wore a long black coat, their silhouette lonely and upright in the morning light.
It was George.
He held a bouquet of fresh white chrysanthemums, gently placing them on the gravestone. Even from this distance, Emma could sense the sincerity and sorrow in his movements. Her steps halted, her heart pounding in her chest.
She wanted to rush over, to tell him the whole truth, to let him know that the child she was carrying was actually his. But the bodyguard had already opened the car door, silently yet firmly urging her. One of the bodyguards even placed a hand on her shoulder.
In the end, she could only silently get into the car. Through the window, she saw George slowly stand up, seemingly sensing something, and suddenly turn to look in her direction.
But the car had already started, their gazes crossing in the air, never truly meeting. The black sedan sped away, leaving behind a trail of dissipating exhaust.
Back at Michael's luxurious mansion, Emma was led into the living room by the bodyguards like a soulless puppet. Michael was lounging on an imported leather sofa, holding a glass of vintage red wine. Seeing her enter, he curled his lips into a meaningful smile.
"Did you have fun?" he asked, gently swirling the wine in his glass, the dark red liquid spinning, his voice terrifyingly soft. "My dear."
Emma didn't respond, just stood quietly, her gaze empty as she looked out the window. Morning light streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows, casting a dappled shadow on her pale face.
Michael stood up and walked slowly to her. The scent of his expensive cologne mixed with the aroma of wine, made Emma's stomach churn. He reached out to touch her cheek, his fingertips cold like snake skin.
"You know," his voice was low and dangerous, "I love seeing you strong like this." His fingers slowly slid down, finally resting on her still-flat belly, gently stroking it. "Especially now, with my child inside."
Emma fought back the nausea and fear, not flinching from his touch. She sneered inwardly; this devil would never know that the child was actually George's. This secret was like a sharp blade, deeply embedded in her heart, causing her pain but also giving her a hidden sense of satisfaction.
Late at night, Michael stood alone on the third-floor balcony, smoking.
Moonlight poured down like water, casting a cold silver glow on his chiseled profile. His expression was uncertain, the cigarette in his hand burned to the end, yet he seemed unaware.
For some reason, seeing Emma return from the beach today reminded him of Celeste, the woman he had once hurt so deeply.
He also thought of Primrose, the woman by George's side. Though she looked nothing like Celeste, she gave Michael the same feeling as Celeste.
But Celeste couldn't possibly be involved with George.
So, where had she gone?
Michael touched the hair tie on his wrist, suddenly feeling a sharp pain in his chest, as if someone was stabbing his heart with a knife. He angrily extinguished the cigarette and turned back to the bedroom.
On the large bed, Emma was already asleep, moonlight filtering through the curtains, casting a fragile glow on her pale face.
Michael stood by the bed, watching her for a long, long time.
His gaze traveled from her furrowed brows to her trembling eyelashes, and finally to her slightly pale lips due to pregnancy. For a moment, he almost reached out to touch her face, but ultimately turned away. The sound of the door closing softly echoed in the quiet night.
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