I watched with hate as Rhys who was now, finally free, rushed towards Slyvia. He cradled her limp body in his arms gently as if she was a porcelain doll. His face contorted with a whirlwind of emotions — sorrow, terror, and desperation as he called out to her, his voice trembling like a delicate leaf caught in the wind, "Slyvia, wake up. This is no time to sleep. We have to get married."
He shook her gently, attempting to wake her up, but Slyvia continued to lie there, unmoving and unresponsive to his frantic pleas.
Panic clawed at his expression, turning his face pale as a ghost, and his hands trembled like leaves in a storm as he tried once more to awaken her. "Slyvia," he cried, his voice thick with emotion and brimming with raw anguish. "I know you hate me. I know you don't want to see me, but please, I beg you, don't do this to me. Get up. Don't play this cruel trick on me."
Still, Slyvia lay unmoved.
