Chapter 150 Truly, Deeply Hurt
The guard quickly regained his composure, feigning interest in the ornamental tree in the garden as he realized Miss Clark was undressed!
"Madam, there’s got to be some mistake,” he said. “When I left, Mr. Bailey was out cold, drunk as a skunk.”
Winona's trembling fingers fumbled for her phone in her purse.
The guard watched her, anxiety creeping in as he caught every flicker of movement from the corner of his eye.
But rather than leaving, Winona, phone in hand, stepped further inside.
Confused, the guard murmured, "Madam, what are you...?"
Winona turned on the living room lights, exposing the disheveled pair on the couch in the harsh brightness. She raised her phone, snapping pictures of them without hesitation.
At that moment, Fiona's hand rested atop the buttons of Zachary Bailey's shirt. Her attire that day had been a black off-the-shoulder sweater, now obscured by the back of the couch — which explained why, from the entrance, Winona had thought she was topless.
"Zachary spilled water on himself, and in this chill, sleeping in damp clothes could lead to a cold," Fiona explained, her tone nonchalant, even as she offered a mocking smile. "You wouldn't mind, right Mrs. Bailey? Of course, with your mind preoccupied with Matthew, you wouldn't concern yourself with trivial matters."
Zachary, heavily inebriated, remained unaffected by the commotion.
As Fiona moved to undo another button, her wrist was suddenly gripped tight —
It was Zachary Bailey.
His brow furrowed, a raspy voice laced with warning: "Get off, don't touch me."
"Zachary," Fiona said softly, "it's me, Fiona."
But his grip didn't soften, suggesting he might even toss her aside, despite appearing to be asleep.
"Zachary..." Her voice rose, a sharp pain radiating from her wrist as she tried to yank free from his grasp.
Zachary Bailey was rudely awakened to find his head swimming in the remnants of inebriation, his eyes half-open yet unfocused. Reluctant to move, he had no desire to speak.
His gaze drifted lazily onto Winona Sullivan. "Why are you here?" he mumbled.
He was still dressed in the crumpled hospital gown and suit pants, the fabric clinging to him in a sad, disheveled state. Several buttons undone, his bare chest was a canvas of bruises, old and new.
It seemed to dawn on Winona just then as she snapped back to reality, her tone spiked with irony, "You might want to ask your bodyguard why he saw fit to kidnap me in the dead of night."
Zachary directed his attention to the stone-faced bodyguard by his side who snapped to attention at his gaze. "Mr. Anderson instructed me to bring her here, sir. He feared for your safety, inebriated and unattended."
"Zachary," Fiona interjected, not hiding her annoyance that from the moment he had opened his eyes, his attention was solely on Winona, neglecting the one who had been taking care of him the whole time.
He showed no curiosity about why she was there, either.
Despite her hair in disarray, Fiona carried an air of quiet elegance and showed no sign of guilt. "It seems Winona has misunderstood. She took some photos that could lead to an unfavorable impression if they got out..."
Winona raised an amused eyebrow. "So caring that clothes were shed? If this were a bed, Miss Clark would already be on it."
Fiona frowned, evidently distasteful of the comment. "Zachary was sick, I had to remove his soiled clothes. Feel free to check if you think I'm lying."
Her lips curled into a smirk of scorn, "Don't judge me. If you were fulfilling your duties as a wife, I wouldn't have had the chance to take care of him."
Zachary ordered coolly, "Delete them."
Winona's heart felt drenched in ice water as she locked eyes with him. She had always known of his favoritism towards Fiona, his blind and unquestioning support. But at this moment, an indescribable sorrow enveloped her; a cold chill seeping into her bones.
She stared stubbornly, silent, as a sense of numb despair slowly crept into her gaze.
In the tense silence, Fiona rose to her feet, "Now that you're back, she's your responsibility. I'll be on my way."
She brushed past Winona with a barely concealed derisive smile, locking eyes for a brief moment to savor her victory.
The look she gave him was one of a condescending sneer, filled with a contempt that others might not perceive and a provocation that was hers alone.
She had won this round.
She bided her time for the divorce. Sooner or later, the title of Mrs. Bailey was hers for the taking—and hers alone.
As Fiona left the premises, the bodyguard hurried out after her.
Winona Sullivan remained still, her gaze lowered upon the man, bleary with drink, perched on the sofa: "Zachary Bailey, we need to talk."
The man chuckled weakly, "Battered and drunk as I am, you really want to talk now?"
Winona paused for a moment, silently counting. Despite the air conditioning, a chill penetrated her light clothing from standing too long. "Things being as they are, what's the point in forcing ourselves to stay together?"
Zachary Bailey squinted as he sized her up.
Winona met his gaze in a silent confrontation. The brilliant light illuminated the desolation in her eyes and the quiet that surrounded them.
Zachary didn't know when Fiona had arrived, but since Winona had the photos, she must have been there first. Yet from the moment he opened his eyes, her demeanor remained cool, exhibiting none of the outrage one might expect from catching a cheater red-handed—not even a single snide comment.
Even now, when she should be lashing out with every harsh and venomous word at her disposal, she simply posed her question in a flat, exhausted tone.
The piercing edge to her words had gone, and with it, the vibrant emotions; she seemed now like a lifeless puppet.
In this moment, a sudden pang inside his heart surged, overshadowing any physical pain. He closed his eyes, his earlier arrogance dissipated in his subdued murmur, "Boring, you think? I find it rather interesting."
Winona was accustomed to his barbed words, his antagonistic stance. She shut her eyes tightly, her voice hoarse to its limit: "Let's get a divorce. I'm truly tired of this incessant, dragging marriage. Each fight exhausts me."
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