Westley You Are Late Chapter 18
A year ago, when I decided to have the surgery, my parents were overseas, caught in the middle of a difficult acquisition. They couldn’t get back.
On the phone, my father was quiet for a long time. Finally, he just said, “Brielle, don’t be scared. Dad will find someone reliable to be there for you.”
That night, he contacted an old army buddy.
I never expected that the current president of the Sinclair Group would turn out to be that buddy’s son.
I was surprised when Thatcher appeared at the door of my hospital room.
He stood there in a dark coat, his presence calm and steady.
We had barely exchanged pleasantries when he cut straight to the point.
“Your father probably mentioned that our families once discussed a potential match between our generation.”
When he saw me freeze, the faintest hint of a smile touched his eyes.
“But you don’t need to take that seriously. Don’t feel any pressure. Even without that history, I would still look after the daughter of my father’s old friend.”
I was, of course, awkward around this complete stranger at first.
But at the time, I didn’t have a better option than to accept his help.
I hadn’t expected that when Thatcher said he would take care of me, he actually meant it.
He went over my medical records with a fine-toothed comb and brought in several of the country’s top specialists for a consultation.
He was incredibly busy, his schedule packed from morning to night.
When he couldn’t be there himself, he arranged for a private nurse to stay with me.
Whenever he had a spare moment, he would bring his laptop and work from the chair in my hospital room.
Little by little, we grew comfortable with each other.
When I was nervous before a test, he would distract me with lighthearted news stories.
When he found me staring blankly out the window, he would quietly place a book I’d once mentioned on my bedside table.
The day I ran into Westley and Sofia, I returned to my room and stared at the ceiling for hours.
When Thatcher came by after work, he knew immediately that something was wrong, but he didn’t press. He just sat with me in silence.
As evening fell, he closed his laptop and offered a faint smile.
“A breakup isn’t always a bad thing.”
I turned to look at him, confused.
He met my gaze, his tone almost teasing.
“If you two hadn’t broken up, where would that leave me?”