Cronus sneered, lips curling in disdain. "Admiring a beautiful and charming woman like her is hardly difficult! Just because she sometimes looks like my sister doesn't mean I can't see her as a woman. You might as well wait until she wakes up and ask her who she wants to be with."
"Cronus, don't go too far! She doesn't have a choice, she'll always be mine, because she's carrying my child!" Capone shot back, his voice low and fierce.
Cronus scoffed. "Whether she can keep the child is still in question. There are other men who can make her a mother, not just you!"
"You!" Capone's anger flared, his fist raising as if to strike, but then something unexpected happened. A soft, cool hand suddenly curled around his, like a delicate, slender snake winding around him.
Capone froze, his heart skipping a beat. He instinctively grasped her hand and turned to the bed, realizing that it was Sophia's hand he was holding.
"Sophia! Sophy… you're awake?" His voice quivered with relief and joy as he turned to the bed. After days of unconsciousness, her eyes fluttered open. She was still weak and dazed, her mind not entirely clear, and everything around her appeared foggy.
Cronus quickly moved closer, softly calling her name, and when she met his gaze, he breathed a sigh of relief. Her reaction was normal—this was a good sign. She should be fine now.
"Do you feel any pain? Does your head hurt?" Cronus asked gently, his voice full of concern.
Sophia shook her head, too exhausted to speak much.
"Everything's fine now. Rest up, eat some spaghetti, and you'll recover in no time," Cronus reassured her, brushing a strand of hair from her forehead. With a final glance at Capone, he stepped back, giving them space.
Capone was right—Sophia was pregnant, though she herself might not know yet. She needed time to process this information, and they needed space to figure things out together.
The door to the hospital room clicked shut, and an oppressive silence settled in. Capone sat by the bed, holding Sophia's hand, waiting for her to turn and look at him, but she didn't move.
"Sophy, are you sure you're not feeling unwell? Should I call the doctor in, or if you want something to eat, just tell me, I can have Lucy bring it to you!"
Sophia remained silent, her back still turned to him. Capone, unable to see her expression, grew anxious. He gently cupped her delicate chin, turning her face to look at him. Her once plump, radiant face had become gaunt, her large eyes wide open, making her appear even more frail and exhausted.
He stared at her, unable to express the emotions bubbling inside him—neither softness nor pain, but something more fragile, like porcelain that had been shattered and painstakingly glued back together. She felt so fragile now that if she even shifted slightly, he feared she might break again. Even a single tear, a glance from her, could make him relive the helplessness he felt when she was in critical care.
But she didn't say a word. Her gaze was calm, empty, as if nothing had ever happened—like she'd simply fallen into a long, unintentional sleep.
Yet, Capone quickly sensed that something was wrong. No matter what he said, she didn't respond. Her expression and gaze reacted, but no words came from her lips.
Anxiety surged through him, and he pressed the call button. The doctor and nurse arrived promptly, performing a thorough examination. After a moment, the doctor turned to Capone and said, "There's no physical damage, but she can't speak at the moment. It's likely related to her emotions. Don't pressure her too much. Let her adjust slowly, help her forget the painful things. She's speaking and waking up, it's just a matter of time. Be patient."
The older doctor gave Capone's shoulder a reassuring pat, letting out a soft sigh.
Capone sat stiffly, looking at Sophia on the bed. The reflection in her eyes was his own, but it felt like a stranger.
He couldn't bear the weight of this blow. First, she lay unconscious for days, and now that she had woken, she wouldn't speak to him.
"Sophy, don't be afraid. Look at me… Look at me! It's Capone. Try to speak, one word at a time, call my name…" His voice cracked with desperation.
He grasped her hand, the back of it still covered with the bandage where the needle had been removed. His grip was tight, too tight, and he unintentionally caused her pain. Sophia flinched, her brows furrowing in discomfort.
"Sophy, try calling my name. Just two words, it's easy!" He didn't realize how forceful he had been until she shook her hand irritably and turned her head away. It was then that he recognized his own loss of control.
The doctor had just said not to rush her, not to pressure her, but he had forgotten those instructions in his desperation.
A wave of regret washed over him. Standing there, he wasn't sure what to do to comfort her. He tucked the blankets around her, lowered the air conditioner's fan speed, and quietly stepped outside the room.
On the terrace at the end of the hallway, he lit a cigarette. The first drag burned his throat with bitterness. He forced himself to take a few more puffs before crushing it underfoot.
He gazed out into the emptiness, like a sailor searching for the guiding light of a lighthouse, yet all he could find was confusion and regret.
He couldn't change the past he had with her, but why had he made a mess of their present?
Pulling out his phone, he called Lucy. "Sophia's awake. Could you make some warm porridge and a few appetizers to bring over? And add a little ginseng, not too much though—she doesn't like it if it's too bitter. Yes, that's it. Thanks, Lucy."
After hanging up, he dialed Karl's number. "...You and Candy, please help me buy some nice pens and paper. The kind with magnets, like we used to have when we were kids... yeah, get the best ones. Price doesn't matter."
He thought of the baby he had nearly lost, a wave of panic rushing through him. Fortunately... it hadn't turned into regret.
Having made all the calls, Capone rubbed his forehead and leaned against the wall. He instinctively reached for another cigarette but stopped himself. He was exhausted. Without cigarettes and coffee to prop him up, only Sophia Diaz seemed capable of alleviating this overwhelming fatigue.
But now, she had shut him out, cutting off the channels of communication, and he didn't know what else he could do.
He turned back, walking into the small hospital room. Sophia was sitting up on the bed, probably starving after days of not eating properly. She had grabbed an orange from the fruit basket nearby, peeling it piece by piece, slowly eating each segment.
She ate delicately, mindful of not overwhelming her stomach after such a long period without food. Every bite was chewed carefully before being swallowed, her fingers nimbly picking at the next segment. Capone stood at the door, watching her finish before he finally pushed it open. The faint citrus scent filled the air. He forced a smile.
"Are you hungry? I had Lucy make some porridge for you. You should eat more now. You're not alone anymore; you need to think about the baby too."
At his words, Sophia paused for a moment. Her expression remained calm, but Capone could see the turbulence beneath it, the storm of emotions shifting inside her.
Motherhood was instinctive. Perhaps the moment she hit her head or was rushed to the hospital, she had already felt the tiny, living being growing inside her.
So when he spoke about it now, she wasn't surprised. But there was an uncertainty lingering in the air—about their relationship, about the future of their child.
Capone, despite his own anxiety, suppressed his restlessness and worries. He sat down at her bedside, repeating once more the words he had whispered to her over the past few days.
He believed that, even though she had been unconscious, she had been aware of what he was saying. When he repeated these words, she seemed at peace, almost as though she had already heard them.
Before, she would have pouted, scoffed, or even argued loudly with him, telling him how wrong his thoughts and actions were and how they could be changed. But now, she sat quietly on the bed, playing with an apple in her hand, its pink surface smooth and clean, reminiscent of her healthy, lively face from before.
She wasn't deaf. She simply refused to respond.
Capone didn't push her. When the porridge arrived, he tried to feed it to her, but she stubbornly refused to open her mouth. Without saying a word, he handed the bowl to Lucy and quietly walked out of the room.
Sophia lifted her eyelids slightly, meeting his gaze through the glass. Then she lowered her head again. Lucy said a few words, and after a moment of silence, Sophia obediently opened her mouth to eat when the spoon was brought to her lips.
Capone turned away, his gaze returning to the empty hallway. He sat down in a chair outside, alone, and buried his own head in his hands.
His mind was flooded with memories of her words—her voice, light and clear, like the ringing of silver bells. Many times it had been accompanied by laughter, other times she had looked at him like a cat with its fur bristling, her delicate brows furrowed as she playfully bared her teeth.
But over time, those words faded into one sentence. The only sentence he could remember clearly:
"Capone, I will never forgive you. I will never forgive you."
Even now, as much as he longed to hear her say those words again, it had become an impossibly difficult thing to wish for.
Sophia's physical injuries had mostly healed, and Capone arranged for her to be discharged from the hospital. He made sure she had regular checkups, especially to monitor the issue of her not being able to speak. Even though it might have been emotional, there were psychologists who could help her.
But Capone was stubborn. He refused to accept that her inability to speak was psychological. She was just angry. He believed that once she calmed down, she would naturally speak again.