My Blind Husband

“Didn’t you demand an explanation?”

The man glanced back at her with an icy stare. “Tll procure an explanation for you,” he retorted curtly before shutting the door behind him, leaving Cherise alone in the silence of their chambers.

From behind the barrier of the closed door, Cherise listened intently as Damien issued instructions to Frances. His voice, though muffled, carried a sense of authority and concern.

“Cherise has had a mishap,” he explained calmly, his words filtering through the thick wood. “She may not feel inclined to freshen up after she fell into the trash can. Ensure she is properly bathed and dressed in clean attire.”

“I’ve arranged for Lennon to procure her favorite fragrance from abroad,” he continued, his tone unwavering. “Sprinkle it throughout the room to create a more comfortable atmosphere.”

“And…”

Pausing momentarily, Damien’s voice took on a softer tone. “Given her current state of mind, prepare a meal that she enjoys,” he instructed, his concern evident in every word.

Having conveyed his directives, Damien leaned in to murmur a few additional instructions to Frances, his voice barely audible as he imparted his final guidance and slowly left.

Cherise sank to the floor as his footsteps faded into the distance, leaning heavily against the door.

This man… even in moments of turmoil, he exhibited such care and concern, enlisting the aid of their household staff to tend to her needs.

It was difficult for Cherise to reconcile this compassionate side of him with the portrait painted by Sebastian, the man who had manipulated her amnesia and harbored a deep-seated vendetta against

her.

The memory of their tumultuous kiss in the car flashed through her mind unbidden.

She subconsciously traced her lips with her fingertips

Upon her lips, the lingering sensation of the wound he had inflicted remained.

Closing her eyes, she replayed the emotions etched on Damien’s face during that heated moment.

His demeanor unmistakably conveyed a simmering anger.

Yet despite the palpable anger radiating from him, Damien’s actions remained restrained, limited to a passionate kiss and the sharp nip of her lip.

Cherise couldn’t help but acknowledge the complexity of his feelings, realizing that his ire had been ignited by her disparaging remarks about her former self.

He only bit her in response to her perceived self-deprecation, not in reference to any judgment of her

He said that she was demeaning herself, not demeaning the former Cherise.

She realized that Damien didn’t perceive her and the former Cherise, who hadn’t lost her memory, as distinct entities.

This revelation stirred a pang of sadness within her, prompting a desire to shed a few tears.

Despite her newfound wariness towards him, she couldn’t deny the kindness he had shown her.

She couldn’t help but wonder: How deeply did he cherish his former self?

With her memory loss, she struggled to comprehend the depth of his emotions,

“Madam?”

Frances’s gentle voice interrupted her thoughts, accompanied by a soft knock on the door. “I’ve brought your favorite incense. Would you like me to open the door and assist you with a bath?”

Initially hesitant, Cherise contemplated whether to open the door. Belongs to (N)ôvel/Drama.Org.

However, after a moment of reflection, she relented and opened it, allowing Frances to enter.

Frances entered the room with a gentle smile, the aroma of the incense she carried immediately pleasing Cherise’s senses.

She liked it.

As Frances assisted her with the bath, she couldn’t help but inquire softly, “Are you and Mr. Lenoir having a disagreement?”

Cherise nodded solemnly. “Sort of,” she admitted, her expression serious.

After settling g into a more comfortable position on the bed, Cherise regarded Frances with a seriou expression. “We had an argument because…” she began, hesitating briefly before revealing the trut “He discovered that Alexis is the son of my first love.”

“Thud!”

A loud thud echoed through the room as the incense burner slipped from Frances’s grasp, clattering the ground.

Flustered, she quickly knelt down to clean up the mess, her movements hurried and agitated. “Who would spread such falschoods?” she exclaimed, her brow furrowing in concern.

Cherise pursed her lips tightly, “My first love was the one who told me,” she confessed.

“He claimed that we were childhood sweethearts,” Cherise continued, her voice laced with a hint of incredulity.

“According to him, we met in a small mountain village during junior high and made a promise to be together when we grew up.” She paused, her expression clouded with uncertainty.

Frances shook her head incredulously as she tidied up the scattered items, her expression a mixture of disbelief and concern. “Madam, you’ve been deceived she insisted gently.

“Since when did you have a first love?”

“You’ve always regarded Mr. Lenoir as your true love. You once told me it was love at first sight when you met him.”

“Although your marriage with Mr. Lenoir didn’t originate from love,” Frances began, carefully choosing her words, “you did harbor feelings for him at the time.” She paused, reflecting on their journey together.

“And after your marriage, despite starting as strangers you gradually fell in love with each other over time.” she concluded.