Following a thorough examination, the doctor reported to Elijah, “Ms. Sandra’s recovery is progressing well. The ointment not only repairs scars but also stimulates skin regeneration. In a few more months, the scars will be barely noticeable.”
“A few more months?” Elijah’s brow furrowed in disapproval.
The doctor nodded patiently. “Her injuries were deep, and the affected area extensive. Achieving this level of recovery in such a short time is remarkable. Pushing beyond this pace could risk complications.”
Elijah crossed his arms. “Haven’t you developed anything more advanced?”
An older doctor stepped forward calmly. “Mr. James, recovery takes time. While experimental treatments, such as subcutaneous injections, exist, they come with risks and may not yield better results than the current ointment. Sometimes, traditional methods achieve what cutting-edge technology cannot.”
Elijah’s intense focus on results only confirmed to Elizabeth that this wasn’t about her scars—it was about money, as always. To him, the world was a machine, and money the universal lubricant. If something didn’t work, it was simply because more money hadn’t been applied.
Breaking the tension, Elizabeth spoke evenly. “It doesn’t matter anymore. A little concealer is enough to hide them for the camera.”
Elijah’s gaze shifted to her, his voice tinged with indifference. “I suppose if the scar remains, you’ll keep holding it against me.”
Ah, so that was it. He wasn’t concerned about her well-being—only wary of old grievances resurfacing. Elizabeth understood: the physical scar might heal, but the emotional wound remained.
Just then, the door creaked open, and Willow entered, balancing a tray with a bowl of soup. Her attempt at warmth was as transparent as the broth. “Ms. Sandra, I made you some soup.”
Willow had spared no expense, garnishing it meticulously with cranberries. It wasn't out of genuine care—Elizabeth knew that. During Elizabeth’s absence, such delicacies would usually end up in Willow’s kitchen. Now, she sought to curry favor.
Elizabeth’s phone buzzed, cutting through the moment. She glanced at it. “Leave it on the side table. I’ll have it later.”
Willow hesitated before setting down the tray, her eyes darting around the room. Elizabeth unlocked her phone, intending to transcribe a voice message. But her thumb slipped, and the audio began playing: “The new script looks good, but the romance needs more drama and tension. Otherwise, it won’t hold the audience’s interest…” She quickly stopped the playback.
Elijah’s eyes narrowed. “A script?”
Elizabeth ignored him, typing a reply. Meanwhile, Willow edged toward the door, her hand sliding into her pocket. She discreetly dialed a number, her movements subtle, and lingered within earshot.