Cecilia Wilson still fell ill, but when she received the call, she struggled to get up. Her whole body felt as if the bones had been scorched by fire, ready to crumble to ashes with a slight breeze. Her throat was in unbearable pain, densely covered with thorns that made swallowing feel like swallowing fire, causing her to tremble. She thought she probably had a cold or maybe even a fever, but she also couldn't not get up. It wasn't that she couldn't; it was more like she didn't dare to.
It was snowing lightly outside. Although the Fifth Young Master had always sent someone to pick her up, she insisted on taking a taxi herself, saying she wasn't used to that.
Cecilia found it too uncomfortable, a feeling of humiliation, like an old-timey singer being picked up by a wealthy family in a carriage. She didn't know what would happen next. That noblewoman had said she wanted her son to be happy, and if he was unhappy, she would make Cecilia and her family join him in the grave.
