Encore of the Avenging Muse (Sylvia and Rupert) novel Chapter 503

“But have you ever considered—maybe she’s just been waiting for you to really choose her all along?”

“If she wanted to ruin everything, she could’ve posted pictures of you two together online, torched your reputation and Ms. Sanford’s. But she didn’t. She protected the both of you. She protected your dignity.”

“So please, Rupert. Let her go.”

The room fell into a heavy, endless silence.

Rupert stepped back, almost swallowed by the room’s darkness. He stood completely still, as if fighting something deep inside.

No one else could see the way his eyes glistened red at the corners, emotion shimmering in his usually cold gaze.

“Why should I let her go?” His voice was raw.

“I just want one person. Just one. Why can’t I have that?”

Chris noticed something was wrong and stepped in, almost catching a fist that Rupert swung in blind anger.

He quickly grabbed Rupert’s arm and called over his shoulder, “Orson, help me out—don’t let him tear his stitches again!”

Orson came up behind Rupert and held him firmly. Chris didn’t hesitate—he administered a calming shot.

A moment later, Rupert slumped, unconscious.

Orson eased him onto the bed, then looked at Chris, guilt and concern written all over his face. “There’s really nothing else we can do?”

Chris shook his head. “Not without hurting them both.”

Orson frowned. “He’s trapped, Chris. He never had control.”

Chris just sighed. “Let’s give him some rest.”

The two men left the hospital room.

In sleep, Rupert’s body felt like it was falling—faster and faster—until the acrid scent of burning wood filled his nose.

He jerked awake. Flames devoured the old mansion in front of him.

This time, he could see the woman trapped inside the inferno.

Sylvia.

She was clutching something pink—a small urn.

The fire roared higher, licking at her dress, but she didn’t move. She didn’t even flinch.

“Sylvia! Get out! Get out of there!” Rupert screamed, running toward the blaze with everything he had.

The house seemed close, but no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t reach her.

Rupert’s chest ached. He opened his mouth, but no words came.

The fire faded. Rain began to fall, thin and cold. The girl’s shape grew even fainter in the mist.

She let go of Rupert’s hand and stepped forward.

Ahead, the scene sharpened: a broken man knelt in the rain, his back to Rupert, head bowed.

Rupert felt himself pulled forward, unable to stop. He realized, with a shock, that he was now the man kneeling in the mud.

Rainwater dripped from his hair onto a pair of white lilies lying on the ground.

“Daddy,” the little girl’s voice echoed, “congratulations. Your plan worked. All the bad people got what they deserved.”

“But, Daddy… Mom and I are gone too.”

Rupert slowly looked up. What he saw tore him apart—a pain like hands crushing his heart.

Two small gravestones stood before him.

Beloved wife, Sylvia.

Beloved daughter, Stella Garcia.