Resent, Reject, Regret

Resent Reject, Regret By Aqua Summers Chapter 293

Resent Reject, Regret By Aqua Summers Chapter 293

Chapter 293 Why Can’t I Let It Go?

“You’re right!” Madam Russel said, nodding as hard as a bobblehead on a bumpy road. She scooped a portion of mashed potatoes and set it on Deirdre’s plate. “Either way, you should eat more! Your body needs it, dear. Give me some time. I’m gonna get a locksmith to break the lock to your courtyard in a few days.”

“Sure.”

Everyone in Brendan Brighthall’s proximity knew a new demon had possessed the man. He had been dedicating himself, headfirst, to his work, almost welcoming the deluge, and had been found spending the nights in his office.

His assistant could not take it anymore. “Mr. Brighthall? You’ve finished reading your paperwork, right? Last I checked, there isn’t anything important or urgent pending your attention, so maybe… Maybe you should go home. Rest up for the day, okay?”

She stopped shy of telling him why she thought it was necessary-the terrible blue-black eyebags and his almost gaunt visage.

Brendan propped his forehead with his palm. As soon as he stopped, fatigue washed over him like a shroud of black fog threatening to blind him. He gave a small nod. “Alright.”

Still, he didn’t nurse a single desire to go home. How could he, when home smelled like… her? When his home was covered in traces of her, shadows of her, trails of her? He would become anxious whenever he started to close his eyes because he was scared he would dream of Deirdre.

Nonetheless, the rational part of his mind knew that if he kept up his workaholic streak, he would fall sick soon enough.

Brendan picked up his suit and appointed a driver for himself.

He reached home. He saw people moving boxes out of the house across the court. Then, when he got out of the car, his eyes caught Deirdre’s clothes sticking out of one of them.

His blood boiled. He stormed forward, snatched the box away, and shot daggers at the poor young man.” Who the hell gave you the authority to touch my things!?”

The man jerked. Charlene walked out of the living room just in time. “Bren! What’s wrong?”

She espied the box in his hands and understood immediately. “Oh, Bren,” she explained, feigning a few chuckles. “We’re about to be engaged, and I’ll be moving in really soon, aren’t I? So, I thought of tidying the place up for the incoming good news, you know? Ms. McKinnon has passed on, after all. We, the living, should let go too, especially since having the dead’s stuff around can feel so…”

Η

She faltered. Brendan’s barely suppressed lividity made it impossible for her to continue. It took almost all of his strength not to let his fury spill out of him. “Her room doesn’t even concern you. More importantly, you’re not even the mistress of the house yet! Shouldn’t you notify me if you’re planning to dabble in any of the house’s affairs?”

His anger was palpable. Charlene’s mien turned pale. She was too familiar with his temperament-it was why it was imperative to remove everything about Deirdre from their lives. Out of sight, out of mind.

She did not expect him to return in the late afternoon, though.

“I… I didn’t want you to break down in grief from seeing her things, Bren. So I took matters into my own hands. I worry that you might never be able to move on from Ms. McKinnon’s passing if I don’t do

something-”

“And it’s precisely why I don’t appreciate you taking matters into your own hands.” Brendan snapped. He closed the lid of the box, his head splitting from a migraine. “I remember telling you this already, and you better not do this again.”

He went past her and climbed the stairs to Deirdre’s old room. He took her clothes out of the box and hung them in her closet once more.

Everything that belonged to her was still here, untouched and locked out of the loop. It almost felt like she was still alive, just away on some affairs before she could pack her things properly.

The windows to her room had never been opened, so the place still smelled like Deirdre’s. Brendan moved his hand to his forehead, and his mind began to replay moments between them in this very room. From how guarded she was, to her gradual compliance, to, finally… the crumbling of the last sign of wariness and the blossoming of a genuine smile on her face.

He had foolishly believed that this was it. This would continue.

His fingers trembled, and his hand made its way to his chest as he felt suffocated. His shortness of breath had robbed him of his thoughts. It hurt to stay in the room.

He walked out and finally felt as though he could breathe again. He confounded himself. Why couldn’t he seem to let go of her already?