"If you don’t detoxify within two days after being infected with the virus, it will pose a life-threatening risk. But even the simplest virus structure can’t be thoroughly researched in just two days and produce a detoxification drug." "The only and riskiest way is to use the body as a test subject, infecting patients with the same type of virus." "Sis, aren’t you curious about who was the one who risked their life for you with the virus?" Ann Vaughn’s eyes flickered, her hands hanging by her side clenched tightly, and she asked hoarsely: "Who was it?" Julian Ford replied solemnly: "It was Cyrus." Even though Annie had already guessed it was Cyrus Hawthorne, hearing it confirmed from Julian Ford’s own mouth still stunned her for quite a while. "He acted as a live experiment subject for you for two whole days, had his blood drawn multiple times, and his body was riddled with countless needle marks, enduring the pain brought by numerous failures in testing... He also took on all the pain that you would have suffered." "You were never infected, so the antidote worked on you the first time. But it didn’t for Cyrus. He got infected with the virus three times, and even after taking the antidote... You, sis, should know better than anyone how things will turn out." Ann Vaughn’s spine stiffened, and after Julian Ford finished speaking, she felt a chill down her whole body. It took her quite a while to find her voice again, dazedly replying: "Three times infected is basically incurable, ultimately leading to death." These two words leapt off her tongue and then fiercely took over every inch of Ann Vaughn’s thoughts, like a nightmare on repeat. Julian Ford sighed, "Sis, although I don’t know what happened between you and Cyrus, regardless of what Cyrus said or did, it was all just to protect you." "Otherwise, once The Hawthorne Family finds out that he died entirely because of you, even if you inherited all his assets, The Hawthorne Family wouldn’t let you off easily, and may even use it as a weapon against you. Making someone disappear silently in this world is all too easy." Ann Vaughn pressed her lips tightly, her expression somewhat dazed. She didn’t know any of this. Julian Ford didn’t give her time to process, speaking on impulse while the alcohol still lingered: "But you don’t need to worry, after you both divorced, Cyrus reassigned The Shadow Guard under your name. They will follow your orders whenever you need." "You don’t need to worry about the management of Hawthorne Corp either; he trained an elite team to ensure Hawthorne Corp operates normally after his death." "Remember the Murray Family before? They were targeting you not because of your grandfather, but because they believed you were a pharmacist and wanted to use you as a research subject. Unfortunately, Cyrus cut off this plot even before it could sprout." Saying this, Julian Ford smiled, "Ann Vaughn, he’s using his life to pave a bright future for you without worries." A future where you can live happily and peacefully even without him. He’s using his life to pave a bright future for you without worries. This sentence kept echoing in Ann Vaughn’s mind, ultimately forming a heavy thud that fiercely landed on her heart. Instantly, the brambles in her heart gradually dissipated, the scars slowly faded, replaced by overwhelming suffocation and ache. It hurt so much she wanted to bend down, to cry out loud. Yet all emotions were blocked in her throat, not a single syllable could be uttered. The infection happened over a month ago, but she only just learned the truth. Her life wasn’t saved by luck or the OX antidote she left in the QY Research Institute. It was Cyrus Hawthorne who used his life to trade hers back! When he endured the trials as a subject, she didn’t know. When he bore the pain of the virus attacks alone, she didn’t know. When he spent his remaining days paving the road for her, clearing obstacles—for her— She still didn’t know! "If he had told me all this, how could he know that I wouldn’t endure it with him?" Ann Vaughn raised her head, her nose aching unbearably. ɴᴇᴡ ɴᴏᴠᴇʟ ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀs ᴀʀᴇ ᴘᴜʙʟɪsʜᴇᴅ ᴏɴ novel★fire.net The cold wind blew her dark hair, half-covering her reddened eyes. Julian Ford, with most of his alcohol-induced courage gone, answered her: "He didn’t want you to bear it with him, that’s why he couldn’t tell you." Ann Vaughn’s breath caught, her whole body feeling as if her blood flowed backward, her mind in chaos. Suddenly, she remembered how Cyrus Hawthorne, when he said those words to her last night, didn’t look her in the eyes even for a moment. As if as long as he didn’t face her, those harsh words could easily be spoken. And that bear head she saw by chance when she went downstairs— Thinking of this, a gleam suddenly burst from Ann Vaughn’s confused eyes, she grabbed the bag she had placed on the stone table earlier and ran out of the balcony. Julian Ford leaned back against the railing, rubbed his chin, and sighed, "It’s out there now; even if Cyrus kills me, I can’t take those words back." It was repaying Ann Vaughn for saving his father’s life. Ann Vaughn slipped, falling directly from the carved door, her knee narrowly escaping a fracture. Ignoring the pain, she rushed into the villa. Before heading upstairs, she first pulled out the bear head she had seen yesterday for confirmation, inadvertently pulling out the whole bear body. The heart on the chest of the big white bear was missing, leaving only a faint mark. Ann Vaughn was absolutely certain that the big white bear that held her to view the scenery that day was this one! Just as she was about to go upstairs, her gaze landed on a bottle in the wine cabinet not far away, and she walked over. Without lingering below for long, Ann Vaughn climbed to the second floor in one go, panting heavily as she rubbed her knee to recover for quite a while, then headed towards the master bedroom. In the master bedroom, only two wall lamps were on, the lighting was not dim, but it wasn’t bright either. A solitary, dejected figure sat on the carpet beside the bed, legs partially bent in front, head lowered, the messy black hair covering his expression, revealing not a hint of him. He seemed to have been sitting there for a long time, like a sculpture, showing no signs of life. As vitality drained from his body, everything around him became like a slow-motion film. Allowing one to feel every minute, every second, clearly perceiving one’s own impending death, a tormenting slowness. Yet as soon as he closed his eyes, that frail figure, with every smile and frown, every cry and anger, flooded deeply into his mind, unable to disperse, repeatedly sketched and portrayed. This might be the last solace given by the heavens. Cyrus Hawthorne slightly raised his head, his sexy Adam’s apple rolled, and then he supported himself to get up, suddenly hearing a light sound outside the door.