Chapter 4 Chapter Four

• Cynthia walked into the big dining room, looking around at the long table filled with all kinds of breakfast food. The chandelier above shined brightly, lighting up the cold faces sitting around the table. Everyone was already seated, including Ken. As she walked down, her eyes met Ken’s, and she could see the anger in his gaze.
• Ken’s father, Mr. Sydney, cleared his throat to get everyone’s attention. As Cynthia got closer, she greeted them with a glance, and they responded in kind. “Everyone, this is Cynthia,” he said, referring to the maids standing who where in charge of serving, pointing at her. “She’s Ken’s wife.”
• The room fell quiet for a moment before Ken’s mother, Mrs. Sydney, spoke up, trying to lighten the mood as they ate. “Oh? And what do you do, Cynthia?”
• “I… I work as a freelance consultant,” Cynthia replied carefully as she took a seat.
• “Interesting,” Ken’s brother, Jack, said while sipping his coffee. “Where did you go to college?”
• Cynthia paused before answering, “I didn’t go to college.”
• A small, knowing smile spread across Mrs. Sydney’s face as she slowly set down her fork. “Oh, I see. That explains a lot.”
• Cynthia’s grip on her fork tightened. The insult was quiet but clear. Mr. Sydney, either not noticing or not caring about the tension, got up from his chair. “I have things to do,” he said before leaving the room.
• Silence hung in the air until the sound of porcelain clinking broke it. Ken, sitting at the far end of the table, was trying to reach for his coffee cup. His arms strained, and his fingers barely brushed against it. It was obvious he was struggling.
• Cynthia saw that Mrs. Sydney and Jack were just watching, pretending not to notice. They didn’t offer to help.
• A wave of sympathy hit her. Without thinking, she stood up and reached for the cup. “Here, let me—”
• Ken smacked her hand away before she could touch it. “I don’t need your help,” he said sharply, frustration in his voice.
• Cynthia’s eyes widened, surprised. She hadn’t wanted to upset him.
• He pushed his wheelchair back suddenly and rolled toward the staircase. Cynthia instinctively followed. “Ken, wait—”
• “I told you, I don’t need your help!” he snapped, his voice cutting through the air.
• She stopped, watching as his maid stepped in to assist him. Cynthia remained rooted in place as he was wheeled up the stairs, the door to his room slamming shut behind him.
• Well, isn’t this nice? A fresh start for dear Ken.” His voice dripped with fake kindness.
• Mr. Sydney barely looked at him. “Jack.” It was a warning.
• But Jack didn’t stop. He turned to Cynthia, who was now back to the dinning table. “You should know, sweetheart,” he said. “Ken isn’t the man he used to be. He’s not much of anything these days.”
• Cynthia’s stomach twisted. Before she could stop herself, she spoke. “That’s funny,” she said, tilting her head. “Because the only reason anyone cares about you is because of his accident.”
• Jack’s smirk vanished. Mrs. Sydney set her wine glass down with a sharp clink. “Enough,” she said coldly.
• Cynthia left them and went upstairs. Later that afternoon, the house was very quiet. Ken’s father had gone out, and so had his mother and brother. Besides the maids, only Cynthia and Ken were at home.
• Cynthia sighed and rubbed her forehead. She knew Ken was hurt and mad, but pushing her away wouldn’t solve anything. After a few minutes, she knocked on his door. “Ken, it’s time for your therapy.”
• “Leave me alone,” he answered back, his voice muffled.
• She sighed again. “You need to do this if you want to feel better.” There was silence.
• Just as she was about to knock again, her foot slipped on the shiny floor. She let out a surprised sound as she lost her balance and fell to the ground with a thud.
• At that same moment, a loud noise came from inside Ken’s room. Cynthia’s heart raced.
• “Ken?” She quickly got up and tried to open the door, but it was locked and wouldn’t move.
• Her pulse quickened. She pushed against the door, trying to force it open, but it wouldn’t move. “Ken! Can you hear me?” There was no response.
• Panic filled her. She turned and ran down the hallway, looking for a maid. She found one dusting near the stairs. “Ken’s door is locked! I think he’s hurt—I can’t get in!”
• The maid’s face went white. “Try the key in the storage room! If that doesn’t work, we might need to break the door.”
• Cynthia rushed to the storage room, searching through the keys until she found the one marked for the upstairs rooms. She hurried back, her heart pounding as she put the key in the lock. It wouldn’t turn.
• She gritted her teeth and took a step back. “We have to break it.”
• The maid hesitated for just a moment, then nodded. Together, they pushed against the door. Cynthia slammed her shoulder into it again and again, feeling more desperate with each hit.
• Finally, with a loud crack, the door flew open. Ken lay unconscious on the floor. His wheelchair had fallen over beside him. His body was still, and his face was pale.
• “Ken!” She dropped to her knees beside him and shook his shoulders. He didn’t move.
• Her hands shook as she looked at the maid. “Call for help. Now.”