My CEO Ex: Let Me Go.-Chapter 135

Three days later, I was finally allowed to go home.

Alexander picked me up and carried me to the car, then back to the master bedroom of the villa.

Two days after that, I removed the bandages from my face.

The swelling had completely gone down, leaving only three dark red scabs. One was right on my cheekbone, and if it had been any higher, it could’ve affected my eye.

Alexander gently touched my face, trying to comfort me. "It’s fine. There won’t be any scars."

He promised to find the most effective scar treatment and equipment for me.

I seemed calm, almost indifferent.

It wasn’t that I didn’t care about my appearance, but I knew I wasn’t prone to scarring. Once the scabs fell off, the new skin would be a little softer and paler than the surrounding skin, but it could easily be covered with foundation and concealer.

"I want to visit my dad," I said, looking up at Alexander.

"Of course. I’ll go with you."

As we left the house, I put on a mask to cover my face completely.

Alexander helped me into the car, and once we arrived at the cemetery, he took a wheelchair out of the trunk, placed me in it, and pushed me through the grounds, stopping in front of my father’s gravestone.

"Dad, I’m sorry. It’s my fault that you can’t rest in peace," I whispered.

I placed the flowers I had brought on the grave and lightly traced my finger across the engraved name on the stone. My eyes began to redden.

"I dreamed about you not long ago... It was in the old courtyard. I was playing under the tree, and you were fixing the bicycle..."

"I wish that dream would never end. I wish I could grow old with you..."

"..."

Back at home, I wanted to go to the third floor.

There was a storage room up there filled with things we didn’t use often.

All of my father’s belongings were stored there.

Alexander carried me upstairs.

"I need some time alone," I said softly.

Without saying a word, Alexander nodded and left.

But soon after, he returned, bringing the wheelchair up so I could move around freely. "Call for me if you want to come down," he said.

"Okay."

"Vivienne, the doctor said it’s important for pregnant women to stay calm. It’s better for the baby."

He didn’t want me to get lost in painful memories of the past.

"I understand."

Alexander nodded and left.

I wheeled myself into the storage room.

Thinking back, the car accident had come so suddenly.

In an instant, I lost my father.

It had been just an ordinary Saturday. My father was heading to the newspaper office for an interview and was giving me a ride to the library.

Just moments before the accident, we were chatting and laughing.

My father said he would pick me up for lunch and asked what I wanted to eat.

I didn’t want to eat out.

I wanted my father’s grilled fish.

But before I could say it, the truck came barreling toward us.

Then came a deafening crash.

And everything went silent.

Before I lost consciousness, I saw my father desperately trying to steer the car, exposing himself to the oncoming truck, using his body to shield me...

When I woke up, I was alone.

Afterward, reporters rushed to cover the story, and with the help of Chairman Hawthorne and many kind-hearted people, my father’s funeral was arranged.

During that time, I felt completely lost—like a puppet on strings, helpless and directionless.

My father’s death had been so sudden that I didn’t know how to cope. I couldn’t even cry.

It wasn’t until much later, one Friday evening, on my way home from school, that it hit me. As I passed a grilled fish restaurant, I glanced through the glass window and watched people coming and going inside.

In that quiet moment, for reasons I couldn’t understand, something stirred deep within me. By the time I realized what was happening, tears were streaming down my face.

That was when it finally hit me: my father was gone.

Gone forever.

After being adopted by the Hawthorne family, I still often visited the small house where my father and I had lived, just to remember him.

Later, that house was seized by the government and turned into a school, so I gathered my father’s belongings and brought them home with me.

I burned all his clothes, but I kept some of his everyday items—books, notebooks, and things that reminded me of him.

Like this metal lighter, worn at the edges. Whenever my father stayed up late writing news articles, exhausted and drained, he’d use it to light a cigarette.

Or this camera, a classic SE model, which my father always carried to the field to capture moments.

Then there were the stack of magazines, the newspapers tucked into folders—each containing articles my father had written.

There were also boxes of negatives and albums filled with photos documenting the stories my father had reported on.

The notebook on my desk was one my father often used to jot down drafts. Every page was filled with his handwriting—each word the product of his effort and passion.

My father had neat handwriting, rarely needing any corrections.

His most famous article was an investigative report on food additives. I read the original manuscript over and over, every word etched into my memory.

I even compared it with the final published version, carefully analyzing the changes he made to certain phrases.

The last draft in the notebook was unfinished, just the beginning written down. It was about a kidnapping case that had happened around that time. Inside the notebook, there was a photo, taken from an odd angle, almost like it was snapped secretly—it seemed to be connected to the case.

But before the article could be completed, the accident happened. I was in a daze, unable to focus on whether the kidnapped victim had been rescued.

I closed the notebook, reorganized my father’s belongings, and wheeled myself over to the stairs. I called out to Alexander.

He came up quickly, looked at my face, noting that there were no traces of tears. "All done?"

"Mm."

Alexander lifted me from the wheelchair, carried me down the stairs, and gently placed me on the bed in the master bedroom.

I asked him, "You’ve been gone a lot these past few days. Is everything okay at work?"

"It’s fine. I just want to spend more time with you."

I didn’t know how to respond to that.

"I bought some books."

"What books?" I asked.

Alexander handed me the books. When I saw the titles, my eyes widened in surprise.

"How to Support Your Wife Through Pregnancy to Birth," "Congratulations, You’re Going to Be a Dad," "99 Things Every New Father Needs to Know"...

"Do you think you’ll get through all these?"

"It’s fine, there are a few months left. I’ll read them slowly."

Just then, Alexander’s phone rang.

"I’ll step outside to take this," he said.

He walked over to the balcony on the second floor and answered the call.

A young voice came through, "CEO Hawthorne, Isabella woke up and left the hospital. We don’t know where she went."

Considering Vivienne’s influence, Isabella was undoubtedly a ticking time bomb.

She couldn’t be allowed to stay in the country.

"Make sure you find her. Fast!"