Where Petals of Vengeance Bloom novel Chapter 362

Soon, the two men broke apart, both gasping for breath. Their faces were mottled with bruises—blue and purple splotches everywhere—and they looked utterly disheveled.

With a cold snort, Asher dragged his battered body away.

Vincent, sprawled on the ground, summoned every ounce of strength just to haul himself into his wheelchair. With effort, he rolled himself slowly away from the scene.

But he hadn’t made it far before a heavyset woman blocked his path.

The woman was none other than Scarlet.

“I hear you’re quite taken with Claire,” she said, her lips curling into a sly smile. “Do you want to win her over? I can help you.”

Vincent eyed the stranger warily. “Who are you? And why would you help me?”

Scarlet’s smile deepened, her tone laced with implication. “My name’s Scarlet. I’ll help you get Claire because I have my sights set on Sean.”

Vincent looked Scarlet up and down, and a vivid image popped into his mind: Sean, hounded by this plus-sized woman, running out of ways to escape her. The thought filled Vincent with a perverse sense of satisfaction.

If he could somehow push Sean and Scarlet together, Sean would become the laughingstock of high society.

Serves him right for trying to steal Claire. Let’s see how he likes his new fate.

……

Time slipped by, and in the blink of an eye, six months had passed.

During that half year, Scarlet and Vincent wracked their brains, scheming and plotting against Claire.

But Claire rarely left the Foster estate, keeping strictly to herself and never venturing out. This left them with no opportunity to enact any of their plans.

Meanwhile, Claire’s health was steadily declining. All her energy went into working faster on her embroidery.

She knew that once her masterpiece was finished, she could finally take Mandy and May and leave the country for good.

After half a year of relentless effort, Claire’s embroidery—into which she had poured her heart and soul—was finally complete.

But she didn’t tell Sean or her grandmother about it.

On either side, iron fences enclosed small courtyards where patients in hospital gowns wandered about, each lost in their own world.

Some were slumped on benches, vacant-eyed and muttering to themselves.

Others shuffled aimlessly in circles, their movements slow and mechanical, as if trapped in a never-ending loop.

A few flailed their arms at the empty air, faces twisted with terror or rage, as though fighting invisible enemies.

They passed through the walkway and entered a small garden.

Following the nurse’s gesture, Claire spotted a woman with gray-streaked hair.

The woman’s skin was sagging and weathered, stripped of the elegance she once had as a society matron. She looked a decade older than her actual age—a living portrait of decline.

Clutching a threadbare doll to her chest, the woman rocked gently, humming a tuneless melody and crooning softly to her make-believe child, as if the rest of the world no longer existed.

It was Adah.