Five Years Wasted Now They Beg Her Back novel Chapter 291

The Bastian Foundation.

Five billion dollars.

Grace covered her mouth as tears streamed down her face like broken pearls, splashing into the bowl of congealed noodles.

Salty tears mixed with the bitter soup.

It was disgusting.

With a trembling hand, Grace fumbled in her pocket for a small white pill bottle.

It was her pain medication.

The doctor said she could only take two a day.

She poured a handful out, not bothering to count, and swallowed them dry.

Bitter.

The bitterness spread from the back of her tongue straight to her heart.

“Grace…”

Her grandmother had appeared at the bedroom door at some point. Watching the TV, she was weeping. “That boy… he’s a truly good man.”

Grace wiped her face and turned off the television.

The room fell silent, leaving only the sound of the dreary wind outside.

“Grandma, I’m tired.”

Grace’s voice was faint. “I want to get some sleep.”

She got up and walked into the small bedroom.

The moment the door closed, she slid down against it, her body sinking to the floor.

She hugged her knees and buried her face in her arms.

And cried without a sound.

Logic told her that Damien was innocent, that he was a victim too, and that he had gone to incredible lengths to make amends.

But her emotions were like a sharp knife, carving into her again and again.

She couldn't bring herself to love him, but she couldn't bring herself to hate him either.

***

Night fell.

The rain grew heavier.

Thunder rumbled, making the old window frames rattle.

Grace was curled up under the covers, lost in a series of bizarre dreams.

She saw her uncle’s gentle smile, Tristan Holloway’s snarling face, and Damien’s figure bowing under the spotlight.

*Knock. Knock. Knock.*

A rhythmic, unhurried knocking sound cut through the night. In the middle of a thunderstorm, it was unnervingly clear.

Grace woke with a jolt.

She checked her phone. It was eleven at night.

Her grandmother was already asleep; her hearing wasn’t good enough to have caught the sound.

Grace put on a coat, and leaning on her cane, slowly made her way to the living room.

She didn’t turn on the lights. Using the flashes of lightning outside, she peered through the peephole.

A man was standing outside.

He was soaked to the bone, his black shirt clinging to the taut lines of his muscles.

Wet hair was plastered to his forehead, and water dripped continuously from his jawline.

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