Twisted Ties of Love

Izabella only raised the corner of her mouth slightly when she heard the old butler say this, a subtle gesture that was nearly imperceptible from the side.

Sure, Brett had it rough, but there were plenty who had it worse. He was born with a silver spoon in his mouth, a cut above the rest from the get-go. Could that really be considered a tough life?

Take Casey, for instance. Mistakenly switched at birth with the Windham family, he ended up as a servant's child, enduring beatings and torture daily. When necessary, he even had to take his employer's place in the face of death.

The old butler, oblivious to Izabella's brewing emotions, continued, "He's been alone since his parents passed when he was little. The Windham family is far from average, and he's grown up in a dangerous world. He's sensitive, insecure, lacking in love. Maybe he's done some things you can't forgive, but I believe he has deep feelings for you. After all, you're the first woman he brought home."

Lacking in love - she had heard this before. Liam had said the same, imploring her to forgive Brett, insisting he didn't understand love.

Using a lack of love as an excuse for hurting others - where did one find the audacity?

It all boiled down to the abuser playing the victim, and the victim being blamed.

As she pondered, Izabella couldn't help but retort with biting sarcasm, "A man in his thirties still lacking love? Maybe he should call me mom, and I'll love him properly."

That comment left the old butler stunned. He had not expected such sharp words from the seemingly gentle girl, who had been nothing but polite moments ago.

The scorn on Izabella's face was unmasked, her beautiful eyes flashing cold as knives.

The butler, lost for words and sensing he'd hit a nerve with his casual remarks, realized it wasn't the words that upset her, but the person they concerned. Izabella was displeased with Brett. Just then, Brett came out of the washroom, and coincidentally, he overheard Izabella's motherly offer.

As the awkward silence ensued, Brett broke the ice. The butler swiftly changed the subject, noticing Brett's pallor and asking with concern, "Mr. Windham, you're quite pale. Are you alright?" Brett, face void of color, replied, "Just a bit of a cold from the weather turning."

The butler wasn't convinced. "I'll have the kitchen whip up some ginger tea. Drink plenty, and a good night's sleep should do the trick. The temperature's dropped quickly here in J City. If you're not better soon, we'll need a doctor."

"I appreciate it, Albin."

Among the Windhams, the old butler was more family to Brett than anyone else.

Brett was quite rebellious - brawling with siblings, covert conflicts, bloodied and bruised, even making Patrick vomit blood in frustration.

Spankings, standing in the corner, kneeling on hard surfaces, being locked away without food - these were common punishments. Yet it was the old butler who looked after him, speaking with him in secret, sneaking bread when he was locked up hungry, and teaching him life lessons after his parents had died.

"Don't thank me, it's what I should do," said the butler, hobbling towards the kitchen. He couldn't shake his worry, subtly instructing the staff to keep an eye on the two to prevent any arguments. Brett and Izabella didn't argue. One cold-faced, the other expressionless, Brett dusted off imaginary dirt from his thighs and sat across from Izabella on the sofa.

He coughed just now, and it caused a dull pain in his chest. He sipped the hot tea on the table, the warmth soothing the dull ache.

The pain of lung cancer wasn't more bearable than stomach cancer - both agonizing enough to induce vomiting blood. In its late stages, even breathing was torture; the chest inflated like a balloon, as if one sharp needle would cause an explosive, bloody burst.

Brett was accustomed to enduring pain silently. Even with internal agony, he casually remarked to Izabella, "I heard you say you wanted to be my mom right as I walked in."

Caught off guard, Izabella fell silent for a moment before retorting, "What can I say when everyone keeps telling me you're lacking love?"

"I'm not lacking love," he replied. Someone had loved him with their whole being for four solid years, filling the void of love in his life. He truly wasn't lacking; sadly, he'd repaid kindness with cruelty, hurting the one who loved him most.

Izabella met Brett's gaze evenly. She'd expected him to lash out at her comment, but to her surprise, he seemed indifferent, even taking her words as a joke.

Feeling the boredom seep in, Izabella stood to leave, glancing upstairs and outside. After a moment's hesitation, she headed for the door.

Suddenly she was yanked backward, her spine crashing into an embrace.

"Where do you think you're going?"

"I need some air," Izabella grumbled, trying to pull away but failing, her expression collapsing into frustration. "Let go."

"It's cold outside. Stay in, I'll take you upstairs," Brett said, pulling her toward the elevator to the third floor.

He glanced back at Izabella's chilling demeanor. "Why so angry? I didn't even get mad about the mom comment."

Silently, Izabella let Brett lead her to a room.

"You'll stay here tonight. Get some rest. Tomorrow, I'll take you somewhere," he said.

"When do we head back to R City?" she asked.

"After we visit that place I mentioned."

Not just back to R City, he thought. He planned to let her go as well.

His eyes suddenly clouded with a bitter grief that was hard to decipher as he released her hand.

The room, previously Brett's, was left to Izabella. Decorated to his tastes, it had a cool, gray palette, dim lighting that made it feel like dusk even in daylight.

After Brett left, Izabella strode over to close the curtains, but even fully drawn, the light that seeped through was none too bright.

Glancing around, she took in the

spacious room, furnished with everything one could need and

adjoining a study. It was clear ther

someone cleaned the place

regularly; not a speck of dust was in sight. The books on the shelf,This is property © NôvelDrama.Org.

though a tad worn, showed signs of

having been long untouched.

Her gaze meticulously swept over the room - the floor, the shelves, the cabinets, the desk, the bed. Each corner subtly betrayed traces of Brett's existence.

On the bookshelf, her eyes caught

an album, which she pulled down and flipped open. Inside were mostly photos of Brett, with captions marking his age, from his first,

fel.n

month to his seventh birthday - after

which, the pages were empty.

Brett had always been a looker, even as a child, resembling a delicate porcelain doll rather than a boy. His childhood eyes didn't carry the danger they did now; they were innocent.

The photos showed Brett alone in his activities - playing with building blocks, doing homework, painting, assembling Legos. He was serious, and unmistakably lonely.

It was obvious Brett didn't enjoy being photographed - he rarely looked at the camera or smiled.

As he got older, his expression became more rigid. By age seven, his eyes looked dull, the light in his eyes extinguished.

At seven, Brett had lost his parents.

Izabella put back the album and sat down on the bed. In the corner near the headboard, against the wall, was a simple drawing of a couple holding a child's hand from behind, with a child's scribbled line beneath it that, despite being blurry, Izabella could make out:

- Mom and Dad, Brett misses you.

On the floor by the wall where the drawing hung, a patch of mold had taken hold - a sure sign that dampness had lingered too long without care.

Staring at the moldy spot, Izabella's mind conjured the image of a seven- or eight-year-old child curled up in the corner, silently shedding tears.

She closed her eyes, shaking off the haunting visions, and rummaged through her bag for her phone. It was still disconnected from the network, showing only the time.

After a moment's hesitation, she connected to the internet. Perhaps overwhelmed by the influx of messages, the phone stuttered with a momentary freeze.