Whispers Turn to Whimpers: Could He Ever Change?

Francis glanced out the window as the car moved slowly through the bustling city streets. A familiar figure caught his eye. Rebecca was attempting to catch the bus, but the crowd was overwhelming, and she missed it, pushed aside by the rushing passengers.

Time passed by with one second, two seconds.

"Sawyer," Francis said quietly.

"Over there," he instructed.

"Got it," Sawyer replied, maneuvering the car to stop before Rebecca. He rolled down the window. "Miss White, hop in. Mr. Francis insists on giving you a ride."

"Oh, I'm good. That's..." Rebecca stuttered, tucking her hair back and giving an awkward laugh. "I appreciate it, Mr. Francis, but I can't impose."

"I'm not your messenger boy," Sawyer quipped, gesturing toward the back seat. "If you want to thank him, do it in person."

Wait, what? Rebecca was stunned, realizing she had no choice but to get in.

"Hurry, please," Sawyer urged. "We're parked in a bus lane. We can't stay here. Mr. Francis is only trying to be nice. Do you want him to get a ticket?" Rebecca was somehow persuaded by the logic, albeit reluctantly, and climbed into the car.

Once the car was back in motion, Rebecca felt out of place, her discomfort palpable in the silence that enveloped the space. Francis sat quietly beside her, his presence undeniable and impossible to ignore.

Rebecca tried to relax, feeling her back sweating. What then?

"Where to?" Francis suddenly asked, turning toward her.

"Uh," Rebecca started, caught off guard, "Maple... Street"

"Okay," Francis nodded, then directed Sawyer, "You got that?"

Sawyer nodded, "Got it, Mr. Francis."

With a slight recline in his seat, Francis allowed the car to return to its quiet state.

Rebecca sat rigidly, like a schoolchild, afraid to make a move until they finally arrived.

As the car stopped, Rebecca wasted no time in expressing her gratitude. "I'm here. Thank you for the ride."

She quickly opened the door and dashed into her apartment complex.

Francis watched her vanish, his eyes lingering on the worn-out gate of her building.

'She lives here? In such a rundown place?' He thought.

It crossed his mind that her financial situation might not be the best, but the thought was fleeting as he instructed, "Let's go."

...

At Golden Oak Manor, Gilbert

carefully carried Sherilyn from the elMaterial © of NôvelDrama.Org.

car in the garage to the master

bedroom, laying her gently on the bed.

"You're running a fever." He had felt her forehead on the drive home. It was still hot. "I'll call the doctor..."

"No!" Sherilyn protested, grabbing his hand. "I don't want medicine."

"Listen to me," Gilbert coaxed. "Let

the

have a look. You might et

os viene cone

not

t need medicine, but I can't just let you be if it's serious."

After grabbing his phone, he called their family doctor and dialed the housekeeper to make some nutritious food.

Soon enough, the family doctor

arrived. After examining Sherilyn, the

el

doctor reported, "It's a mild fever, probably from catching a chill. The cut on her hand isn't deep. No stitches are needed. I've cleaned and dressed it. Just make sure it stays dry. Also..." He hesitated, glancing at Gilbert. "It's a bit delicate. Mr. Johnson, considering she's a

woman and naturally less robust

than a man, perhaps be gentler, um, in bed, if you understand my

meaning."

Sweating, the doctor found the conversation uncomfortable but necessary.

From his medical bag, he retrieved a tube of cream. "This, Mr. Johnson, please apply it for her."

Gilbert was stunned. Was it what he thought it meant?