Chapter 583 The Line Between Pity and Weakness

Yunice, ever perceptive, picked up on the shift immediately. It was only when someone truly cared that they sought understanding, worried how the other person saw them. If Wyatt hadn’t cared, he wouldn’t bother explaining—just like she hadn’t when she silently ate those mussels in front of Paul to avoid a scene.

The realization hit her again: Wyatt might actually be serious.

And that unsettled her. She had never planned on spending her life with anyone.

Sitting up straighter, Wyatt reminded her, “Just one look from me and you’ve given up on the ice cream?”

The clever always caught subtle cues.

Just as Yunice had sensed Wyatt’s approach, he too had noticed her pullback.

For a moment, he’d actually been pleased, thinking Yunice’s questions about Nora meant she was finally taking interest in his affairs…

He poured her a small glass of Calvados and shifted the topic. “Now that Maine’s been arrested and Morgan’s going to confess, your brother will be out soon.”

“Morgan? Confess?” Yunice raised her brows. That arrogant lunatic? Even if the evidence piled a mile high, he’d never admit guilt.

But Wyatt met her gaze calmly, his voice smooth but firm: “He will.”

There was more beneath that statement. Yunice could hear it.

Outside the restaurant, Nora rolled along alone in her wheelchair. A black, polished car sat nearby, and as she approached, the door swung open.

Duncan climbed out eagerly, one foot hitting the pavement. “Well? Did Wyatt say when Morgan’s getting released?”

He didn’t even bother asking if it would happen—so sure Wyatt would cave for Nora’s sake. Nora looked at him evenly. “Morgan won’t be released. But I can make sure he doesn’t die.”

“What?” Duncan’s face contorted. Gone was the fake smile—he couldn’t even maintain the act.

“What use are you then!” he barked, raising a hand and slapping her across the face.

Nora’s head jerked to the side, her mouth bleeding. But she glared back. “You raised me?” Where had the Johnsons been during her three years in a coma?

She dared talk back, so Duncan lifted his hand again—only to have it caught mid-air.

“Mr. Johnson.”

Nora looked up. Someone had stepped out from the shadow of Duncan’s car. Slowly, his face emerged under the sunlight.

Her expression shifted—fearful, guarded.

It was Paul. Wearing a low-brimmed baseball cap, he walked over and eyed Nora with an amused smirk.

“She always had this kind of temper?”

Duncan chuckled awkwardly. “She spent two years with Wyatt and thought she mattered. Got all uppity…”

Paul cut him off with a raised hand. “Don’t change her. I like her just like this.”

His words unsettled Duncan.

Paul crouched, locking eyes with the woman in the wheelchair.

Nora’s pupils flickered. She turned her head, frightened.

Then, without warning, Paul shoved her wheelchair—flipping it.

Nora cried out, landing hard in a muddy puddle, soaked and humiliated.

“Mr. Paul, what are you-” Duncan was stunned.

Paul brushed his hands off. “Creating an opportunity.”

He looked down the road toward the restaurant. Wyatt’s car was parked outside. He’d have to pass by here on his way out.

“Get in,” Paul told Duncan.

Duncan hesitated, glancing at Nora lying helplessly in the mud. Even if he didn’t love her, this felt too cruel.

Paul, already back in the car, said coldly, “She’s not yours to pity.”

Gritting his teeth, Duncan climbed in. The car pulled away quickly.

Nora, now alone and caked in mud, reached for her wheelchair. Her hand slipped. Instead of helping, she accidentally knocked it farther away.

It just kept getting worse.

When Wyatt’s car passed the scene it did, as expected, slow down.

Sensing the change in speed, Yunice looked up. In the rearview mirror, she saw the overturned wheelchair and the figure in the puddle.

A woman, hair a mess, soaked in mud, no one to help her.

“Stop the car!” she said sharply.

Wyatt hit the brakes.

“That’s Nora, isn’t it?” she asked.

Wyatt frowned. “She’s faking. Don’t worry—someone will pick her up.”

Yunice said nothing for a moment. She knew it too—this was likely orchestrated. Too conveniently timed. Still… watching someone lie in a filthy puddle without aid—it tugged at something. Some part of her not yet hardened by this world.