Jarrod lounged against the plush pillows, looking thoroughly unruffled despite the stern, angry glare from his grandmother. His voice was calm, almost detached. “Grandma, your blood pressure’s already high. Maybe you should take a breath and calm down.”

She frowned immediately, cutting him off. “Don’t change the subject. I want a straight answer from you.”

Her lips trembled, as if even saying it out loud was difficult. “That Miss Fielding… is there something going on between you two?”

Jarrod lifted his gaze, his face a little pale—probably from blood loss. Even his lips had lost their usual color. But he made no effort to explain, just watched her quietly.

The old woman suddenly felt dizzy, her head swimming for a moment. She paced twice, then drew in a deep breath. “I don’t care if there’s anything between you and her. If Elodie’s bothered by Miss Fielding’s presence and you won’t deal with it, I will.”

Only then did Jarrod speak, unhurried and measured. “Elodie’s not bothered by it.”

His grandmother stared, at a loss for words.

Jarrod knew her temper well. He sighed, pushing himself a little more upright. “Grandma, this is between us. You don’t need to get involved.”

She looked at his pale face, the reprimand caught in her throat. “Jarrod, I just hope you’re not the kind of man who forgets what he owes. Elodie is gentle- anyone else might take advantage of her, but you can’t.”

He smiled, just barely. “You care about her so much. I wouldn’t dare.”

She sighed, knowing full well that in the end, whatever came between them, it was something they’d have to work through themselves. What could she really do?

“Are you still in pain?” she asked at last, her concern showing through.

Jarrod gave a careless smile. “It’s nothing.”

“And Elodie? Where did she go?” His grandmother assumed Elodie had just stepped out for a moment and would be back soon to sit with him.

“She went out to get something,” Jarrod replied smoothly.

That satisfied the old woman for now. She realized she didn’t understand their marriage as well as she thought. She wanted to help, but didn’t know how.

After sitting with him for over half an hour, she finally let Jarrod convince her to head home.

Once she’d gone, Jarrod’s calm expression faded. He frowned, glancing at his right arm. The anesthesia had worn off, and a deep, persistent pain now throbbed through his arm and hand, where the skin felt raw and burned.

He didn’t pay much attention to his own injuries. Instead, he reached for his phone, glanced at the screen for a while, and finally closed his eyes to rest.

The next morning, just past seven, Maurice and Joseph arrived at the hospital with Sylvie in tow.

Sylvie looked pale, clearly sleep-deprived. She hurried straight to Jarrod’s bedside, worry written all over her face. “Does it still hurt? Aren’t they giving you any more painkillers?”

Jarrod glanced at the three of them, his expression unchanged. “I’m fine.”

“Fine? That drone’s rotor was spinning like a blade—don’t pretend you’re not in pain just so we won’t worry.” Sylvie took a deep breath, her concern obvious. Maurice stepped forward, placing a neat lunchbox on Jarrod’s bedside table. “Sylvie’s been worried sick about you. She probably didn’t sleep last night. She got up early to make you something warm-homemade soup.”

Sylvie hesitated. “It’s my first time cooking… I’ve never tried before, so I don’t know if it’s any good. But Jarrod, will you try some?”

She opened the container and ladled out a small bowl for him.