Chapter 4

The next morning, for the first time, Rayford asked me to drive him to the office.

"My assistant's off today, so I'll have to trouble you," he said apologetically.

I knew exactly why—he was trying to stop me from checking his schedule—but I still nodded and agreed.

When I dropped him off at the building, I saw him run into Sarah in the lobby. They didn't touch or exchange words, just a quick nod to each other, acting like nothing more than colleagues.

"Honey, should I pick you up this afternoon?" I asked.

"No need, I'll have the driver take me home," he quickly declined. "You should rest at home."

I smiled and agreed, but once I drove away, I immediately parked across the street at a café.

Brittney arrived soon after, holding a folder.

"I found something. Rayford does have an important meeting today, but it's not with a client—it's with his brother, Jerrold Wallace."

Jerrold? Rayford's half-brother, the one who's been fighting for control of the company?

"Where are they meeting?"

"The private club at the Financial Tower, 2 p.m.," Brittney said, handing me a card. "It's a membership card. A friend of mine works there."

I took the card, a strange feeling settling in my stomach. "Brittney, do you think I should go?"

"Cynthia, do you want to keep pretending, or do you want the truth?"

I paused for a moment. "I want the truth."

At 1:30 p.m., I entered the Financial Tower as a guest of the club. The staff politely led me to the lounge, where I had a clear view of the meeting room entrance.

At exactly 2 p.m., Jerrold arrived. Tall, handsome, and impeccably dressed in a sharp suit, he looked every bit the confident businessman.

At 2:05 p.m., Rayford arrived.

My breath caught—he walked in on his own! No wheelchair, no crutches, just walking steadily and confidently, like nothing was wrong.

"Mr. Wallace, this way please," the staff said, leading him to the meeting room.

Rayford nodded and followed.

I quickly got up and followed them. The door to the meeting room wasn't fully closed, and I could just make out their conversation.

"How's Grandpa doing?" Jerrold asked, getting straight to the point.

"He's fine, just worried about the company," Rayford replied easily. "As you know, he's always wanted me to take over."

"But you…" Jerrold hesitated.

"I'm fine, my recovery's going well," Rayford interrupted. "I'll probably be fully recovered in a few months."

"Really?" Jerrold's voice was skeptical. "Then why haven't you told Grandpa?"

Rayford went quiet for a moment. "The timing isn't right."

"Rayford, I have to tell you, some shareholders are already talking. They think a disabled person shouldn't manage the company."

"I've told you, I'll recover!" Rayford said, his voice rising a little.

"So when can you stand? Next year? The year after?" Jerrold pressed. "Grandpa's eighty. Can he really wait that long?"

"What do you mean by that?"

"I mean, maybe it's time to think about letting someone else take over."

At that moment, everything clicked. Rayford wasn't pretending to be disabled for sympathy—he was just stalling. He knew he couldn't take over the company yet, so he was using his disability as an excuse to block Jerrold from stepping up.

"The company is mine!" Rayford's voice rose. "No matter what my condition is now, Grandpa has already made his decision."

"But do you have the ability to manage it? You sit in a wheelchair every day, can't even walk normally..."

"I told you, I'll recover!"

Just then, my phone suddenly rang. It was Cary.

I hurried into the hallway to answer. "Hello, Dr. Cook."

"Ms. Flowers, I need to discuss something with you regarding next week's check-up."

"Sure, go ahead."

"If the results show that your husband has fully recovered but still refuses to stand, we may need to consider other treatment options. If necessary, I'll request a psychiatric evaluation."

My heart started racing. "A psychiatric evaluation?"

"Yes. In cases like this, there may be a psychological barrier that requires professional treatment."

I ended the call, my mind spinning. Did Rayford know that next week's check-up would expose everything? How would he handle it?

When I returned to the meeting room door, it seemed the argument inside had ended. Rayford came out first, looking unsettled.

I quickly ducked behind the wall and watched him leave the building. Strangely, once he was outside, he walked directly to the parking lot, not even bothering to call for his driver.

I followed behind him, watching as he expertly got into the car and drove off.

Then, Jerrold came out and started talking on the phone near the entrance.

"...He really has recovered, but for some reason, he's still pretending to be disabled... Yeah, I find it strange too... I'll keep watching him."

I stood frozen, my mind racing. Rayford can walk, and Jerrold knows it, but Rayford doesn't know that Jerrold knows? It felt like some twisted game of layers and deception.

Back in my car, I received a call from Brittney.

"Cynthia, Sarah isn't pregnant."

"What?"

"I had someone check. She went to the gynecology department yesterday for a routine check-up, not a pregnancy test." Brittney paused. "But I found something else."

"What is it?"

"Rayford has another primary doctor at Serenity Hospital—Dr. Mercado from the neurology department. He's been prescribing medication for Rayford recently."

"What medication?"

"Medication for anxiety and insomnia."

I leaned my head against the steering wheel, feeling like my mind was about to explode. What is Rayford so anxious about? He's been faking this disability for three years, deceiving everyone—was it all just for this inheritance game?

At 7 p.m., Rayford finally returned home. Still in his wheelchair, still needing my help to move around.

"Honey, how did the meeting go today?" I asked, already knowing the answer.

"It went fine. The cooperation should be fine," he said tiredly. "Cynthia, I want to rest early tonight."

"Okay, I'll get your bath ready."

As I helped him with his bath, I noticed a new needle mark on his arm.

"Honey, what's this on your arm?"

Rayford glanced at it casually. "Company check-up. They drew some blood."

Another lie.

At 10 p.m., I lay in bed, listening to the sounds from the guest room. Rayford was on the phone, speaking quietly, but I still caught a few words: "check-up," "reveal the truth," "need to find a way."

I got out of bed and decided to check his computer in the study. For the past three years, Rayford had always kept his computer off-limits, claiming it was for company reasons.

The door to the study was ajar. I quietly stepped in. His computer was still on, displaying an email inbox.

The most recent email was addressed to Pierre Porter, with the subject: [Urgent Consultation: How to Handle the Full Medical Check-Up.]

My hands were shaking, but I clicked on the email.

[Dr. Porter, the check-up next week might expose some issues. I need your help—are there any medications that can temporarily alter the test results? Or any other options? This is critical for me; it affects the entire plan...]

"Did you read it?"

Rayford's voice came from behind me. I turned around and saw him standing in the doorway.

Yes, he was standing—without any support.