Chapter 7: Do Not Owe Anyone Anything
Jesse, too, looked astonished.
Unfazed, Caleb calmly adjusted his clothes, covering himself. He turned to Agnes and said, “Could you bring me another set of clothes?”
Still dazed, Agnes nodded hurriedly before scurrying off.
Tears streamed down Deborah’s face. “Caleb… what… what happened?”
In his two decades at Quixall, he’d had his fair share of scrapes and bruises from childhood mischief, but those had always been minor, fleeting. Now, there wasn’t a single inch of his skin left unmarked. Scars layered over each other, grotesque and jagged.
The room remained suffocatingly quiet, eyes filled with shock and unease. Caleb, however, remained indifferent, as if he had long grown accustomed to it. With a casual shrug, he explained, “My cellmates were a little hot-tempered—big guys, both of them. If I ate one less bite of food, they beat me. If the food wasn’t good, they beat me. If it was delicious, well… they still beat me.”
Every day, he was beaten for a new reason.
Deborah trembled, unable to bear the image forming in her mind—her son, beaten bloody over and over again. Guilt weighed down on her, her sobs growing uncontrollable. “I’m sorry… I’m so sorry…”
Yelena, struggling to contain her discomfort, stiffly asked, “Why have you never mentioned this before?”
Caleb’s lips curled into a smirk. What would’ve been the point? Would you have saved me? Or just fed me empty promises and told me to endure?
Caleb had no interest in lingering on past suffering. He simply reminded, “Let’s eat. The food’s getting cold.”
But Deborah had lost all appetite. She turned to the housekeeper and instructed, “Have the hospital send over their best scar removal cream. And call the family doctor—I want a full examination done on Caleb.”
The housekeepers immediately dispersed to carry out her orders.
Caleb gently placed his hand over hers. “There’s no need for all that trouble.”
Jesse hesitated before speaking. “Caleb, I’m sorry you had to go through all this…”
Of all people, Caleb could stomach words of pity from anyone except Jesse. The moment Jesse opened his mouth, nausea curled in his stomach. Lifting his gaze, he met Jesse’s eyes and asked, “Are you apologizing out of guilt? Or are you just relieved it wasn’t you in my place?”
“Caleb Jenkins, what are you even implying? Why are you being so petty?” Raquel, now Jesse’s staunchest defender, snapped at him without hesitation.
Caleb didn’t spare her a glance. His voice was cool, unwavering. “Raquel, don’t blame Caleb. It’s my fault he was the wounded party.”
With that, whatever shred of guilt Yelena might have harbored completely vanished. She shot Caleb a disdainful glance and scoffed, “Prison isn’t a playground—everyone in there goes through hardships. If others can endure it, why couldn’t you? Stop acting like some helpless victim.”
A coldness settled deep in Caleb’s bones, spreading from the hollow space where his heart once held warmth. He never expected understanding from them. He never expected an apology. But for Yelena—his own sister, the one who once swore to give him the world—to speak with such cruel indifference? That was almost amusing.
His gaze met hers, sharp and unyielding. “It’s precisely because I endured it all that I’m sitting here now, listening to you scold me. And you, of all people, should know—I’m not the type to play the victim.”
Back when he was still Caleb Quixall, he had been known for his stubborn resilience—always carrying even the heaviest burdens without complaint. Now, he looked at his sister, the woman who had become a stranger. “When you used me as Jesse’s cushion, I ended up with three broken ribs puncturing my lungs. Did you ever hear me complain? After I was discharged from the hospital, did I ever question you or Jesse about anything?” His voice was eerily calm, yet razor-sharp. “I don’t owe any of you a thing.”