Arianne asked nothing more. Some things were just meant to stay private.
---
Somewhere in a foreign country laid a hospital that housed a feeble man lying on his bed with his eyes trained on the little screen of his phone. There, shown in the tiny screen, was the dining hall within the Tremont Estate.
A slight smile hung on his lips as his eyes lingered on Arianne and Smore with rapt attention.
Henry, the butler, was massaging his legs. “Are you sure you want to keep your survival a secret from your wife, Mr. Tremont? We couldn’t tell her back then because you were in a coma and in a rather dire state. But now, you’ve passed the most critical phase. That’s a good cue to inform Madam, right?” he suggested. “She’s in a terrible mental shape, Mr. Tremont. She even contracted a serious case of migraine. It’s not at all surprising to find her sitting inside your study because she couldn’t sleep, and she’ll sit there and do nothing until the very next day. I’m just afraid that if this keeps up, she might fall ill in exhaustion. The weariness of the body can often be cured with a night’s rest, but the fatigue of the heart is tormenting and not easily relieved.”
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