Tyrone whispered, “You’re awake.”
Hearing Tyrone’s voice, Quintessa snapped to full awareness, quickly sitting up: “How long have I slept?”
“It’s still early, barely past 4 PM.”
“That late?” Quintessa quickly threw off the covers and got out of bed.
Tyrone stopped her: “Where are you going?”
Quintessa tucked her hair behind her ears: “I need to get to the set.”
Tyrone pushed her back down: “Look at you, you’re as pale as a ghost. You’re not going anywhere.”
“But I have to. I have scenes tonight, and there’s not much left. We could wrap up by this week. I can’t delay everyone’s schedule.”
Seeing her insistence, Tyrone could only say: “It’s not even dark yet. What’s the rush? Let’s have dinner, and I’ll drive you there.”
Quintessa nodded: “Okay!”
Tyrone frowned slightly: “You’re a woman; don’t push yourself too hard.”
“I’m not.”
Tyrone chuckled coldly.
He didn’t bring up her car accident, nor did he offer any words of comfort, because Quintessa wasn’t someone who sought comfort. Like a lizard that’s lost its tail, she might hurt, but she didn’t need anyone’s help to stand up again.
That’s just who she was, fragile yet not weak, stronger than anyone yet immensely vulnerable.
Tyrone escorted Quintessa downstairs.
Mrs. York looked up and casually said: “You’re up. Go drink that glass of milk.”
Quintessa paused, surprised that Mrs. York had prepared a glass of milk for her.
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