Chapter 8

Charles's heart had been in his throat until he heard Willow's answer about the rat dream.

"Why didn't you say something sooner? I'll have all the beds replaced," he said, immediately pulling out his phone to make arrangements.

Willow smiled faintly, tacitly accepting his solution. She had indeed been disgusted these past days.

If he could fool around with Rachel at the Lancaster Manor on their wedding night, who knew what had happened in their own beds?

After breakfast, Willow received news that she'd passed her interview. She was to report to the company next Monday—the first good news she'd had in days. A genuine smile lit up her face.

"What's got you so happy?" Charles had changed clothes and naturally wrapped his arms around her from behind.

The familiar scent of his cologne made Willow's smile dim slightly.

"I passed my interview. I'll start work next Monday," she said, casually putting her phone away.

From an angle she couldn't see, Charles's brow furrowed briefly before he forced a smile. "Really? That's great," he said, his tone slightly stiff.

Willow didn't think much of it—he'd never wanted her to work outside the home anyway.

"But isn't your company near that coffee shop from yesterday? Taxis are hard to find in that area, and I can't drive you to and from work every day." Charles paused. "You might need to drive yourself. Would you be okay with that?"

Willow's fingers clenched unconsciously, her eyes freezing as if she'd slipped into a nightmare.

Seeing her expression, Charles immediately regretted his words. Picking her up for work each day wasn't a big deal—he could wake up earlier, and on days he couldn't manage it, the company driver could step in.

He simply disliked Willow being beyond his control.

"That incident happened years ago. It's time to move on," he said, reassuringly gripping her shoulders. "I'll help you practice driving these next couple of days. Just take it slow, and nothing will happen."

Though still resistant, Willow reluctantly agreed. She would need transportation for work after all.

That afternoon, Willow sat behind the wheel of Charles's car while he took the passenger seat.

"Don't worry, I'm right here watching. Nothing will go wrong," Charles reassured her.

Even before they hit the road, Willow was tense, her face pale.

She'd gotten her license right after high school, but certain events had kept her from driving since.

Charles guided her step by step—starting the car, slowly merging onto the road.

"Just focus on what's ahead," he said, noticing her constantly checking the rearview mirror. "This car is worth a million dollars. Everyone behind us is keeping their distance—no one would dare hit us."

Willow's palms were sweaty with nervousness. She nodded obediently and concentrated on the road ahead.

They made it to her company building without incident.

Just as they were about to head back, Charles received a phone call. His expression turned serious as he exchanged a few words with the caller.

Hanging up, he looked at Willow apologetically. "Babe, there's an emergency at work. I need to go right away."

The car was quiet enough that Willow clearly heard it was a business matter. She opened the door, intending to return the car and take a taxi home.

Charles stopped her hand. "I've called a driver to pick me up. You should practice a bit more—just go back the same way we came. We just drove that route, so it should be fine."

Before Willow could refuse, he was out the door. "Drive slowly," he called back, "and if anything happens, just stop and call me."

Just like that, Willow was left alone in the car.

Looking at the traffic flowing around her, she felt her confidence wavering. She was debating whether to get out and call a driving service when someone knocked on her window.

"No parking here," a security guard warned sternly.

"I'm sorry, I—" Willow began awkwardly, hoping to ask for help moving the car.

The guard misinterpreted her hesitation and frowned. "Move along now, or I'll have to write you a ticket!"

Willow tried again to ask for assistance, but then heard him mutter, "Young people with fancy cars—who knows how they got them."

At that, she swallowed her request, took a deep breath, and reluctantly started the car.

Fortunately, there was a parking area just ahead—she only needed to drive a short, straight distance.

The car inched forward. Finally reaching the parking area, Willow faced a new challenge when trying to park. She crept forward at a snail's pace, looking out the window for someone who might help.

But the sidewalk was empty.

When she looked back at the road, she realized she'd reached a corner. From the corner of her eye, she saw another car emerging.

Instinctively, Willow hit the brakes—but nothing happened. The pedal wouldn't respond, and the car kept accelerating.

Seeing a collision was imminent, Willow's mind went blank with terror. Her heart pounded so hard she couldn't breathe.

Meanwhile, Blake had barely rounded the curve when he sensed something wrong, but it was too late.

The cars collided—neither going very fast, but the impact still caused a slight jolt.

In the back seat, Sterling Lancaster opened his eyes from his light doze. "What happened?"

Looking out, he saw a car with its front end pressed against their vehicle. His brow furrowed slightly.

"Mr. Lancaster, I'll check it out," Blake said, frustrated. He'd been driving so slowly—how could anyone hit them?

Sterling remained silent, letting him handle it.

Blake quickly got out and approached the other car. Just as he was about to knock on the window, the door opened.

Willow stumbled out, deathly pale, her legs giving way as she fell into Blake's arms.

"Help... my father... he's still in the car. Save him!" she cried.

Blake froze in recognition. "Ms. Spencer?"

He instinctively steadied her, then glanced inside the car. It was empty.

"Have you been drinking?" he asked, though he detected no alcohol on her breath.

Whatever he said, Willow seemed trapped in her own world, desperately pleading for help, her face frighteningly pale.

As Blake stood there uncertain what to do, he heard the car door behind him open. Sterling stepped out and approached them with long strides.

"Mr. Lancaster, it's Ms. Spencer," Blake explained, transferring Willow to his boss as quickly as possible.

Perhaps because Blake hadn't responded to her pleas, Willow redirected her desperate appeals to Sterling. Her hands clutched his jacket tightly, wrinkling the custom-tailored fabric.

"Please help me..."

Sterling instinctively caught her, his large hand at her waist. A fleeting sense of familiarity passed through him, quickly displaced by concern at her desperate expression.

His brow creased as he bent down to lift her into his arms. Turning back to the car, he instructed Blake, "To the hospital."