She Was the Treasure All Along novel Chapter 972

Tears spilled down Helena's cheeks. She knew how brilliant he was; there was no hiding the truth from him. Biting her lip, she gave a slow, hesitant nod.

For several minutes, the hospital room fell into a suffocating silence.

Morris showed zero emotional reaction. He simply stared blankly. Just as Helena braced herself to comfort him through what she assumed was a catastrophic mental blow, he finally spoke.

"Just as well."

Helena froze. "What did you say?"

"I've played for so many years," Morris murmured, his voice so quiet he almost seemed to be talking to himself. "I forgot why I was even playing a long time ago."

She stared at him, her heart breaking. "And your face..."

As the anesthesia wore off, the dull throb of pain radiated across his features, but he merely twitched his lips. "That matters even less."

Physical appearances had always been entirely irrelevant to him.

Helena realized this was not going the way she had expected. Morris wasn't having a breakdown. Instead, his eerie, hollow calmness terrified her far more than any display of grief could.

It hit her then: he really was an empty shell.

He had been given so much in life that he had lost the capacity to feel. Even his greatest passion, his music, brought him no joy. He cared about nothing. He was completely hollow inside.

She didn't know what to say. Her thoughts were a mess, but Loyce's parting threat still echoed in her ears.

"Morris." Helena took a deep breath, forcing her tears back. "What happened was indirectly caused by Swain's invitation. He might have overlooked the security protocols. He never imagined your enemies would track you down. None of us thought something like this could happen..."

He turned his head slightly, his dark eyes locking onto hers.

"You're trying to say it wasn't his fault?"

She worried her lower lip. "When he invited you, he didn't know this would happen. He just..."

"Just what?"

She couldn't form the words.

She wanted to say, *He just wanted you to share in his happiness,* but as the excuse formed on her tongue, she realized how pathetic and flimsy it sounded. Even she didn't buy it.

Morris watched her for a few seconds before looking away.

He asked another question, his voice dropping an octave. "Does Swain know about your physical needs?"

"No," Helena whispered. "I would never tell him."

Average men couldn't handle that kind of darkness. Especially not in a new relationship. She was terrified of him looking at her like she was a freak.

Morris fell silent for a moment. "Leave."

She looked at him, her chest tight. She didn't fully understand him, but she had read enough about psychology to know that a man this detached and hollow was dangerous. He had completely lost his only emotional outlet.

Her instinct was to protect him. Maybe it was born out of that twisted, unnamable bond they shared.

There would always be a dark corner of her soul reserved for him. She could never forget him, nor could she erase what they had done together.

Even now, dating Swain, whenever she lost control—whenever she drove herself to the edge, clutching her vibrator in the dark—it was Morris's ruthlessly tender, dominating hands she saw behind her closed eyelids.

Back then, in those moments, he had felt alive.

And she had been utterly addicted.