Requiem of a Broken Heart

Chapter 863:

“Congratulations!” another voice joined in.

Rachel turned to Allan, her eyes shimmering with gratitude. “Thank you,” she whispered, her voice thick with emotion.

The recognition she had longed for from Brian was finally realized in that single, unforgettable moment.

As the crowd’s excitement began to settle, Rachel turned to face everyone, her voice calm but filled with sincerity. “Thank you for your blessings.”

Chloe, standing at the back, felt the weight of defeat press down on her. Now it explained why Allan had been so attentive, giving Rachel rides. They were married!

With a bitter twist of her lips, Chloe turned her attention to the refreshments, her fingers absentmindedly picking at the edges of her glass.

Life went on, a steady rhythm, and time seemed to slip away unnoticed.

Before Rachel knew it, six months had passed.

Everything seemed to be progressing in the right direction, except for one growing concern that weighed heavily on her heart. She couldn’t ignore it—Allan had been visiting the hospital more often.

At first, it had been once a month, then every two weeks.

She noticed the change, her mind racing with questions. She had almost asked him several times, but Allan never mentioned it. So, she kept her thoughts to herself, unsure if she should press him.

One day, Alban had accompanied Allan to the hospital.

Rachel stayed home, determined to make a special meal, carefully selecting dishes she knew Allan loved.

The timing was perfect; just as she finished preparing everything, Allan stepped through the door.

With a bright smile, Rachel set the table, eager for his reaction.

“Allan, try it. See if it suits your taste.”

At that moment, Allan’s heart was in turmoil, a thousand words swirling in his mind, none of them finding their way out. But seeing her hopeful expression, he swallowed his unease and gave a soft nod.

𝕍𝕖𝕣𝕤𝕚𝕠𝕟 𝕥𝕣𝕒𝕔𝕖𝕕 𝕥𝕠: g𝕒𝗅𝗇𝗈ν𝕖𝗅𝕤﹒ⅽ𝕠𝕞 noveldrama

“Okay,” he murmured, reaching for a dish with a quiet, practiced motion. But just as he reached for the dish, the fork slipped from his grasp, hitting the floor with a sharp clatter.

Rachel didn’t think much of it and quickly reassured him.

“It’s fine. I’ll wash it.” She bent down to retrieve the fork and made her way to the kitchen, unaware of the subtle tremor in his fingers behind her.

When she returned, his face was a mask of normalcy, though his hands remained rigid, betraying his discomfort.

She handed him the fork again, and this time, he gripped it with visible effort, his knuckles white with strain.

Still, his movements were painfully slow, and his posture at the table was oddly stiff.

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