Twisted Ties of Love novel Chapter 554

Brett was a man who scoffed at the idea of fate, but after the tragic loss of Izabella, he found himself drawn to an old cathedral in R City. Lighting a candle and leaving a donation, he knelt before the statue of a saint, even though he was unsure of what had compelled him to seek solace in such a place.

The act felt in part therapeutic, and in part self-flagellation.

An elderly priest noticed him, a figure of stillness amidst the flickering candles, and approached to warn him that kneeling for too long could harm his knees. Brett remained unresponsive, so the priest offered, "Son, would you like me to read your fortune?"

Looking up, Brett gave a slight nod.

After Brett provided his name and date of birth, the priest asked, "What shall we look into?"

Brett struggled to find an answer. Since Izabella's death, his desires had faded, and nothing held meaning anymore.

The priest studied Brett in silence, and then asked him to extend his left hand to read his palm. His gaze lingered on a scar in Brett's palm while he murmured a prayer and made calculations in his head; soon he arrived at a conclusion.

He wrote a single word: "Nothing."

Wealth without joy, no family to share his fortunes with—no parents, no wife, no child.

Such a curse was new even to the priest, who shook his head and sighed deeply as he pondered Brett's fate. Orphaned as a child, widowed and childless as a young man, he had a life of solitude with a looming shadow of a premature end.

The only blessing Brett seemed to have was financial security.

He had never believed in destiny, but the priest's words struck a chord. Brett's life seemed a cruel jest, as if he had gambled everything on Izabella and lost it all to the whims of fate.

Christmas Eve had marked the beginning of his story with Izabella. Now, it was nothing more than a lingering obsession.

Brett had made his plans. He intended to spend one last Christmas Eve in memory of Izabella before bringing everything full circle.

But fate had other plans. His illness worsened suddenly.

The culprit was the plate of chili-laden pork kidneys—a dish Izabella had mastered. Brett had devoured it, with chilies and all, in a masochistic fulfillment of a death wish.

Ignoring the hospital, he called his personal medical team. They rushed to his side with their equipment; the process was silent but for the urgent scurry of their steps.

Izabella stood outside, watching the commotion with an unexpected twinge of concern. This was not the first time she had seen Brett collapse, but it was the first time she truly comprehended the severity of his condition.

Brett's lungs were failing. The excessive spices, the sleepless nights, and the bitter cold of R City's winter without a hint of sunshine had exacerbated his condition. The flu and fever made each breath of him a struggle, but he refused to fall; there were still things he wanted to do.

Coughing violently, he spat out a mouthful of blood, the crimson stark against his pallid complexion.

Surgery was not an option Brett would entertain, and without his consent, the doctors could only provide emergency care on the spot.

Izabella, staying outside, was approached by a nurse who inquired about her relationship to Brett.

What was she to him? His ex-wife? An enemy? A stranger?

The nurse, misinterpreting her silence, thought she was perhaps a mistress kept by a rich man—a scenario she'd seen all too often.

"How is he?" Izabella's voice was flat and devoid of concern, as if she was inquiring about a stranger.