A Writer's Transmigration into the world of fantasy-Chapter 87

Steven Han had never intended to peek at his boss's private messages. Unfortunately, the moment Miss Cruz's text appeared, it lit up Victor's phone screen.

He saw it by accident.

And after seeing it, his confusion only deepened.

What on earth had happened in that ward?

Why had President Steele gotten into the car earlier with such a stiff expression, his jaw clenched tight, and ordered Steven Han to drive him straight to the hospital without a word of explanation?

Steven Han hesitated. Given past experience, curiosity often led to disaster. But this time… he couldn't help himself.

He lightly knocked on the door of Doctor Mark Johnson's office and lowered his voice. "President Steele, your phone rang. It seems to be a message from Miss Cruz…"

Inside the room, Mark Johnson was holding a syringe. His gaze swept over Victor's exposed forearms, and his brows lifted slightly.

Victor's face was pale. His arms were frighteningly red, the allergic reaction spreading beneath his sleeves. The symptoms had clearly worsened.

Yet throughout the entire drive, Victor hadn't made a sound. He hadn't even shifted in his seat.

Mark Johnson clicked his tongue with amusement. "A message from your little lover? What's this, you're not even going to read it first?" He smiled. "Don't worry, I can wait."

Victor cracked his eyes open and shot him a lethal glare.

"Stop talking nonsense," he said hoarsely. "Just… give me the injection."

*

By the time Isabella returned to Sun House, the sky was already pitch-black.

It was eleven o'clock at night.

She went downstairs once again and asked the same question she had already asked countless times.

"Is Mr. Steele back yet?"

The butler answered with the same calm, expressionless tone as before. "Not yet, Miss Cruz."

Victor was angry.

She knew that much.

He had made it very clear with his silence.

Even so, she did not feel that she had done anything wrong. On the contrary, she felt that she had already taken the initiative to apologize. That alone should have been enough.

This was his fault first.

By reaching out to him again, she was already giving him an out.

What more did he want?

The more she thought about it, the more wronged she felt. She bit her lower lip and lay down on the bed, her phone clutched tightly in her hand. The contact name "Victor" stared back at her from the screen, silent all day.

Her fingers hovered over the keyboard.

Finally, she began typing again.

"I know I slapped you today. That was too much. But… seeing the way you treated my mother, I…"

Her fingers paused.

The cursor blinked.

"Well, I…"

Meanwhile, on the other side, Victor's fingers slid slowly across the surface of his phone. He stared at the screen for a long moment, his gaze deep and unreadable, before finally setting it aside. Without another glance, he lowered his eyes and resumed flipping through the documents spread neatly across his desk, as if the message had never existed.

Steven Han pushed the office door open, dinner in hand. The aroma of warm food filled the room, but the atmosphere remained cold. His eyes flicked toward the phone lying face-up on the desk, and he couldn't help lowering his voice.

"President Steele… are you really not going to tell Miss Cruz about your health?"

Victor lifted his brows slightly, his expression unchanged. He did not respond.

Steven Han's chest tightened. He hesitated, then pressed on, unable to swallow his frustration. "You already did everything you could today. This really can't be blamed on you. Miss Cruz was emotional because she was worried about her mother. That's understandable. But you also have your own difficulties, President Steele. If you don't explain anything, she'll just keep blaming herself… or blaming you."

Victor held a Parker pen between his fingers, signing his English name at the bottom of the document with smooth, unhurried strokes. When the final line was completed, he didn't even look up. His voice, when it came, was flat and cold.

"Have you said enough?"

Steven Han fell silent instantly, but the dissatisfaction was written all over his face.

He had worked by Victor's side for years. In three more months, it would be a full five. He had been personally recruited by Victor's father, Phillip Steele, and knew more about the Jin family than most people ever would.

He could see it clearly. Victor cared deeply about Miss Cruz.

But this was also the problem.

Victor had never been in a relationship before. He didn't know how to explain himself, didn't know how to soften his words, and didn't know how to step down when pride got in the way. Watching from the sidelines, even Steven Han felt anxious for him.

"President Steele—"

"You can take the rest of the night off," Victor interrupted, brushing past the topic as if it had never existed.

Steven Han stood where he was for a long moment, dinner still in his hands. In the end, he could only shake his head helplessly, let out a quiet sigh, and turn to leave.

*

Nearly a full week passed, and Victor never once appeared at Sun House.

At first, Isabella kept sending him messages, checking in cautiously, asking indirect questions. Later, when all she received was silence, she finally stopped.

She no longer asked the housekeeper about him either, but the unease in her chest never truly settled.

She had always believed that her stubbornness came from her mother.

Serena Valente had now proven her right.

Her mother had meant every word she said. If Isabella came to see her again, she had to come with Brandon Hughes.

No exceptions.

Isabella went to the hospital twice after that. Both times, she was stopped at the door by the nurse and politely but firmly turned away.

In the end, she sent a message through the nurse instead.

"If next time I can't come with Brandon, then I won't come at all."

She left the things she had brought behind and walked out of the hospital alone.

She still hadn't driven the car Victor had given her. The limited-edition Lamborghini remained parked quietly in the university parking lot, untouched. Perhaps because of that car's presence, fewer people dared to openly provoke her these days.

Her work progressed faster than ever before.

Her mood, on the surface, seemed better than it had been in a long time.

Even though she couldn't see her mother, Dr. Richards told her during their daily phone calls that Serena Valente's condition had stabilized and even improved slightly.

So really… There was nothing for her to worry about.

Nothing at all.

She told herself that again and again.

That afternoon, she walked past the sports field. To her right was Binhai University's parking lot, and there it was again, gleaming under the sunlight.

The white Lamborghini.

Pristine. Untouched.

Her chest tightened instead.

She stopped walking, pulled out her phone, found Victor's number, and clenched her teeth before pressing the call button.

"Du… du… du…"

It rang three times.

No answer.

She let out a quiet sigh, already expecting it.

Of course. He still wasn't picking up.

Just as she lowered her phone, a shadow fell across the ground in front of her.

A figure stepped out from nearby, approaching slowly.

Isabella frowned slightly. Even though the woman before her looked completely different, recognition struck almost instantly.

"Leslie Winkle?"

Leslie Winkle truly looked nothing like she had a few days ago. She was dressed in a simple black dress paired with flat shoes, a small black backpack slung over her shoulders. Her hair had been restyled into soft chestnut waves, and light makeup outlined her features. Gone was the anxious, fragile girl from before. Standing there now was someone calmer, sharper, and far more composed.

Leslie stopped in front of her and smiled faintly. "Isabella. Long time no see."

Isabella smiled back, though her gaze lingered on her face. "Not really that long. Just a few days… but you've changed a lot."

"Is that so?" Leslie Winkle echoed softly. There was something strange in her tone, something that made Isabella pause. "So it's only been a few days…"

Isabella felt it too. The Leslie Winkle standing before her was clearly different, yet she couldn't pinpoint exactly what had changed. It wasn't just the clothes or the makeup. It was something deeper, something settled.

Leslie Winkle looked at her directly and asked, "Isabella, if I told you I needed a favor… would you help me?"

Isabella thought for a moment. Leslie Winkle had once been forced into a corner, acting out of fear and desperation. She could have stayed silent about the recording, or used it to blackmail Isabella or Vanessa, and walked away with a large sum of money. But she hadn't. That alone proved she wasn't the heartless villain Vanessa painted her to be.

She was just someone struggling to survive.

And Isabella found she couldn't hate someone like that.

"I can try," she said honestly. "You helped me before, so if there's something I can do, I won't refuse. I just can't promise I'll succeed." 𝐟𝗿𝐞𝚎𝚠𝐞𝚋𝕟𝐨𝚟𝐞𝕝.𝕔𝕠𝚖

The smile on Leslie Winkle's face deepened slightly, as if she had been waiting for those words.