Taking Back What My Sister Stole novel Chapter 117

Her tone was so calm it was unsettling.

“If you wanted to give her this opportunity, you could have just told me. Why pretend to be so deeply affectionate?”

She had watched the video over and over, from initial disbelief, anger, and sadness, to the calm she felt now, as if she had lived through a century.

Now, every word she spoke was a sign of giving up.

She couldn’t understand how he could keep saying he wanted to reconcile, yet at the same time, always protect Larissa.

He had even given everything that belonged to her to Larissa.

Wesley knelt on one knee, carefully holding her burning hands. “Priscilla, let me explain.”

Priscilla turned her head away, tears streaming silently down her face, hurting more than any outburst.

“You are my wife. I don’t want that to change.” He embraced her almost reverently, trying to soothe her with a gentle voice. “Larissa is just my sister. There will only ever be a sibling relationship between us. Do you understand my intentions?”

But to Priscilla, these were all just excuses.

Ridiculous excuses.

Clearly, in his heart, Larissa was the most important person.

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Otherwise, after Claude left, he wouldn’t have stepped in himself to support her.

He had even trapped her here.

“I can’t understand your intentions. All I know is that you’ve made a mess of my life.”

There were no more tears in her clear eyes, only hatred for the man before her.

Wesley didn’t care about what she said.

He had already prepared himself mentally when he decided to do this.

He would not back down.

Gently touching his wife’s burning forehead, he whispered softly, “Lie down and rest for a while. The family doctor is on the way.””

He took her phone, turned it off, and placed it on the bedside table. Then he flattened her pillow, speaking as if making small talk.

“I went to the hospital to see Grandma. She’s doing well now.”

“When you’re better, I’ll take you to see Grandma.”

After finishing all this, he swayed a little but immediately straightened up.

The room was at a comfortable temperature, but his forehead was covered in a thin layer of sweat.

His steps were a bit unsteady as he walked out.

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Priscilla stared blankly at the ceiling, her voice hoarse: “Now, I don’t even have the right to go to the hospital?”

Wesley’s steps faltered. He held onto the doorframe, not daring to look back, and only said softly, “The family doctor will take good care of you.”

With that, he almost fled, disappearing quickly at the door.

Priscilla’s eyes were wide open, dry, unable to shed any tears.

Outside the door, Wesley leaned against the wall. The intense pain made it almost impossible for him to stand upright, so he could only support himself against the wall and slowly, painfully, made his way to the study.

On the snow–white wall, faint pink marks were left behind.

An hour later.

In the study.

Wesley took off his white shirt, revealing the crisscrossing bloody marks on his back.

The family doctor methodically treated the wounds and reminded Wesley not to get them wet.

“How is she?” Wesley asked.

“I’ve already given Mrs. Carlton a fever–reducing injection. She’s asleep now.“”

The doctor packed up his things, left some ointment gauze nearby, and then left.

“Rumble.”

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Lightning flashed outside the window, and heavy rain began to pour down.

Wesley stared blankly at the raindrops rolling down the

window; no matter how smooth the glass was, the rain always left its mark.

He let out a silent, bitter smile, feeling that his relationship with Priscilla was now like this summer rain–fierce and

overwhelming as soon as it arrived.

The cracks were just like the marks on the glass–impossible to

erase.

After eleven o’clock, the rain eased a little.

Wesley left the study and returned to the master bedroom.

A servant’s voice came from downstairs: “Mrs. Carlton.”

Wesley’s heart skipped a beat, and he hurried downstairs.

Priscilla had already opened the front door and rushed out

into the rain.

The heavy rain fell on her body, which had just recovered from a fever, stinging like needles.

She hesitated only for a moment before someone grabbed her tightly from behind.

“Priscilla,” Wesley called his wife’s name, his voice muffled by the downpour. “Where are you going?”

“Let me go.

Priscilla pounded on his hands, but his arms were like iron

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clamps, refusing to loosen even a little.

He forcibly dragged her back.

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Her heart was full of hatred, and her nails scratched his hands until they bled.

Yet Wesley still refused to let go, anxiously calling her name. again and again. “Priscilla, please, come back with me.”

A servant hurried over with an umbrella, but the two of them were already soaked through.

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