CHAPTER 23: CHAPTER 23- BERT IS YOUR BOYFRIEND

Morrison was left speechless for quite some time, completely thrown off by Bert’s words. He hadn’t expected that everything Bert did was merely to draw a clear line between himself and Catherine. Honestly, his brother-in-law’s mind was impossible to read.

At last, Morrison could only grumble in defeat.

"Fine. I’ll stop meddling in your business from now on. No point doing good deeds just to get burned for it."

He made sure to sound wounded, hoping Bert might at least realize how much effort he’d wasted trying to help.

Morrison was beyond frustrated. He had originally planned to take credit for finding a top surgeon for Catherine’s mother — maybe use that as leverage so Bert would stop nagging him about Lilian doing magazine shoots. But no, Bert had refused to play along, completely unmoved.

When the dishes arrived, the two men finally shifted gears. They ate in silence for a while before the conversation turned to work.

Bert’s studio had already found its rhythm, taking on various design projects. Though his primary expertise was in fashion, he had recruited a diverse team of skilled designers — from architecture to interior and jewelry design.

He might not grasp the most intricate technical details outside of his field, but his artistic instinct more than made up for it. Whether it was a gown, a building, or a luxury pendant, Bert understood one thing perfectly — design must first captivate the eye. That innate aesthetic sense allowed him to lead even the most talented specialists with ease.

And the man’s imagination — his creative instinct — was undeniable. Every designer who’d joined his studio left their first meeting with him deeply impressed, even a little in awe.

After all, Bert had been in the design world nearly two decades, studying it since college. At thirty-six, his experience alone placed him far above most of his peers.

Everyone had assumed Bert’s studio would focus solely on fashion, but he’d made a bolder move — expanding into multiple creative fields. He carried himself with a cool detachment, but Morrison knew better: Bert was ambitious, quietly aiming to dominate the entire Burg Eltz design scene in a few short years.

Remembering Lilian’s instructions to "look after" Bert, Morrison decided to hand one of his shopping mall renovation projects to Bert’s company. But Bert — ever stubborn — rejected the offer outright.

"Let’s keep it fair," he said calmly. "Open bidding."

Morrison nearly choked on his drink. This lunch felt like pure punishment.

"Lilian told me to check in on you, you know..." he muttered helplessly.

He didn’t dare disobey his wife — that was simply not an option — but Bert made it impossible to actually do anything for him. And if Lilian ever thought Morrison wasn’t doing enough, he’d be the one to suffer.

To Morrison, Bert was a constant source of emotional exhaustion — which was precisely why he wished his brother-in-law would hurry up and find a woman to occupy his time.

But Bert only gave a faint, polite smile.

"Thank her for me," he said evenly. "And thank you. But I’d rather earn my place through skill, not through family favors."

That shut Morrison up completely. Bert’s words were courteous, yet firm — a gentle but unmistakable rejection.

In the end, Morrison could only snap irritably,

"Then you can tell Lilian yourself that you don’t want our help, so she’ll stop pestering me about it!"

Bert’s lips curved into an amused smile, eyes gleaming with mischief.

"If she doesn’t believe you," he said, "that’s your problem. Maybe she just doesn’t find you very... credible."

"Bert!" Morrison ground out through clenched teeth.

"You want to see us fight, don’t you? You enjoy this!"

Bert leaned back in his chair, perfectly at ease.

"Well, you’d lose anyway. I might as well enjoy the show."

That was the final straw. Morrison swore to himself that he’d never meet Bert alone again — not ever.

In the world of Burg Eltz, Morrison was powerful and respected. Everyone treated him with deference... everyone except Bert. Around him, Morrison was doomed to eat humble pie.

By the time the meal ended, Morrison was fuming, while Bert left the restaurant looking calm, refined — and thoroughly satisfied.

After they parted ways, Bert got into his car and drove off.

He knew that if he truly settled in Burg Eltz to expand his career, both Dave and Morrison would lend their support. But he had little interest in leaning on them. He understood their good intentions, yet, as he’d said, he preferred to let his work speak for itself.

He believed in his own ability — and in the talent of the designers he’d chosen.

He had recruited them because of their brilliance, and trusting them was, in its own way, a testament to his own discerning eye.

For the next several days, Catherine practically lived in the hospital, day and night, caring for Renata.

The move was done, the new apartment cleaned and settled — now all that mattered was taking good care of her mother.

The doctor said Renata’s discharge date would depend on her recovery, but it would be at least another two weeks.

The hardest part came in the first three days after surgery.

Because of the operation, Renata temporarily couldn’t speak or move much. Catherine had to help her turn over regularly, massage her limbs to keep her circulation going, and stay alert through the nights while the IV dripped. She barely dared to close her eyes.

Gradually, Renata regained some strength — able to sit up and move a little — and Catherine could finally breathe easier.

Riley and her mother had both offered to come help, since Riley was close to Catherine and her family had always treated her warmly. They were worried about her and wanted to lend a hand.

But Catherine gently refused.

She knew her mother too well — proud and self-reliant to a fault. In her current frail state, Renata would never allow others to see her like this. Catherine didn’t want to embarrass her.

On the fifth day after the surgery, when Renata had just started to speak short, halting sentences again, Catherine received a phone call — from Channing.

He said he wanted to visit Renata.

Catherine was so furious she almost hung up on the spot.

When she and her mother had needed help most, he had not only abandoned them but even tried to sell her off to that factory director. And now, when Renata was finally recovering, he wanted to come play the role of the "caring husband"? How could he have the gall to do that?

And Catherine knew immediately — this wasn’t about concern. Channing must have had some ulterior motive.

Her voice was cold when she answered,

"My mother’s recovering well. There’s no need for you to come."

She was standing just outside the ward when she took the call, not wanting Renata to hear her arguing.

But Channing’s tone on the other end remained smooth, almost affable.

"Cici, she’s still my wife. Isn’t it natural for me to visit her?"

He even chuckled softly.

"I know I made mistakes before, but we’re still father and daughter, aren’t we? There’s no grudge that lasts forever between family—"

Catherine didn’t even listen. His words washed over her like meaningless noise. Her heart had long gone numb.

It had died the day he tried to trade her off to that banker.

It had died the day he slapped her across the face.

What "no grudge between father and daughter"?

She knew better. Her hatred — her disgust — would never fade.

So when he finally paused, she simply said in an icy tone,

"Are you done? If you’re done, I’ll hang up. I need to take care of my mom."

She moved to end the call.

"Cici!"

Channing’s voice sharpened.

"I’m already downstairs at the hospital. Or would you rather I come up myself?"

And just like that, his real reason surfaced.

He hadn’t come to see Renata — he had come to see Catherine.

She sneered silently as he continued,

"I’m in the parking lot. Come down, I just want to talk. You wouldn’t want me to walk into your mother’s room, would you? You know she doesn’t want to see me..."

He was threatening her, using Renata’s peace as leverage to force Catherine to meet him.

But Catherine was long used to his manipulative tactics.

Her tone stayed calm — almost bored.

"If you want to come up, then go ahead. Just don’t blame me when I call the police."

And with that, she hung up without another word.

Catherine had already made up her mind.

In a few minutes, she would wait by the elevator doors. If Channing dared to come upstairs so shamelessly, the moment he stepped out of the elevator, she would call the police—accusing him of harassing a patient. She didn’t care if the accusation didn’t hold in the end. Even a scene like that would be enough to strip him of his dignity, and she would make sure not to disturb Renata’s rest inside the ward.

Until recently, Catherine had always been the gentle kind.

No matter how cold or cruel Channing had been to her, she had never once stood up to him.

But after all the heartless things he’d done over the past few days, she had finally learned to fight back.

Perhaps her tolerance had only made them believe she was easy to bully.

They kept pushing, over and over again.

But she wasn’t made of stone—she simply didn’t want to stoop to their level.

And now... she finally had.

In the end, Channing never came upstairs—perhaps her cold, unyielding tone had frightened him off.

That afternoon, once Renata had fallen asleep, Catherine left the hospital, planning to go home and prepare dinner. Renata had begun to regain her appetite lately, which was a good sign.

But just as Catherine stepped out of the inpatient building, she saw Channing walking toward her.

So he hadn’t left at all—he’d been waiting for her.

The fact that he was lowering himself so much only made her more certain: he wanted something from her.

Catherine stopped, standing still, saying nothing. She simply waited for him to speak first.

Channing approached with a forced smile, holding out a large red envelope.

"Cici," he said, pressing it toward her, "this is just a little something from me for your mother’s hospital stay."

Catherine stepped back, avoiding his hand.

She didn’t need his money. She’d already sold her apartment, and the remaining funds—after paying for Renata’s surgery—were enough to cover her recovery comfortably.

And even if she were desperate, she would never take his money.

The surgery was already done. What was the point of offering help now?

When she had needed it most, he had done nothing.

Now he came bearing "kindness"—because he wanted something.

Channing’s expression turned awkward.

"Cici, please... you have to help your dad. I’m really in trouble this time."

Catherine’s tone stayed cold and distant.

"Say what you came to say. I’m busy."

Channing hesitated, then blurted it out.

"You know my company’s been struggling. Could you ask your boyfriend—Bert—to invest a little, just to help me through this rough patch...?"

"Boyfriend?" Catherine repeated, frowning. "Bert?"

She had no idea what he was talking about.

She hadn’t known about what happened at the police station that day, and Riley had never mentioned that she’d told them Bert was her boyfriend.

"I don’t know what you’re talking about," Catherine said flatly. "I don’t have a boyfriend. So I’m afraid I can’t help you."

She turned to leave, but Channing quickly blocked her path.

"Cici, please, I know you’re still angry with me—but you have to help me this time! That day at the police station, Riley said it herself—Bert is your boyfriend!"