Twisted Ties of Love

Chapter 6

Investment project?” Izabella frowned. If he really had that kind of business mind, her grandpa wouldn’t have handed the Salotti Group over to her.

‘Just send the money over, I need it urgently”

“I can give you the money, but you have to send me the project documents so I can take a look,” Izabella said

What kind of dad takes orders from his daughter like this? Alan felt humiliated and cursed at Izabella over the phone, calling her a useless daughter and saying that she should have been aborted. After some harsh words, he tried to play the victim.

These good cop, bad cop tactics were nothing new to Izabella. After listening, she simply replied, “Anything else you want to say? I’m busy here, so I’m hanging up if there’s nothing.”

“No, don’t hang up, I’m sending it to you!” Alan quickly stopped her, afraid she would change her mind.

After hanging up, Izabella waited for the files Alan sent. When they arrived, she forwarded them to her assistant to print out a copy and make her a cup of coffee in the meantime.

When the documents were delivered, Izabella scanned through them until a steaming cup of coffee was placed on her desk. The coffee’s rich aromal filled the air, but even the high–quality taste couldn’t mask its bitterness. NôvelDrama.Org © 2024.

She had a sweet tooth and used to need a sugar cube just to take a pill. Now she relied on bitter coffee to stay awake and focused.

Taking a sip before continuing to review the documents, Izabella found Alan had invested in a real estate project. It seemed legit at first glance, with detailed plans, certificates, and a reliable team. But not even half an hour later, Alan called to hurry her for the money.

Her assistant knocked on the door, and Izabella multitasked, one ear on the phone and the other giving instructions to her assistant.

“Ms. Salotti, Dr. Felton is downstairs looking for you.”

Why is Presley here? Izabella hurriedly replied and hung up the call, her mind now focused on the unexpected visitor.

“Bring him up, and have someone make tea for us.”

While her assistant fetched Presley, Izabella transferred two million dollars into Alan’s account. She stared at her phone, waiting for a word of thanks from her dad, but never came. She mockingly laughed and tossed the phone onto her desk.

“Ms. Salotti, Dr. Felton is here,” the assistant announced, and Izabella ushered her out of the office as Presley entered,

“Sit over here.” Izabella led Presley to the cozy seating area near the floor–to–ceiling windows.

As soon as he walked in, Presley smelled the strong coffee aroma and looked at the half–finished cup, frowning. “Why are you still drinking coffee?”

“Am I not allowed?” Izabella pushed a cup of tea towards him, asking casually. “What’s the matter today?”

Presley sat down. “It looks like you’ve completely forgotten what I told you last night.”

Izabella’s outstretched hand froze, and she quietly sat back on the sofa, head hanging like a child who had done something wrong.

“You have to go to the hospital with me today, no matter what

Ignoring Presley, Izabella continued staring at the withered plant. “What for?”

“A thorough examination, to determine a treatment plan, and to be hospitalized.”

Presley studied Izabella closely, unable to imagine how someone who used to be afraid of injections could endure stomach cancer pain.

Izabella shook her head. “Presley, my disease is like this plant, its roots are rotten, no treatment will work.”

“Bella, without trying, how can you know it won’t work? You can work day and night and spend four years trying to please a man who doesn’t love you. Why not spend a little time on your health?” Presley felt it was a waste that Izabella, who wasn’t even 24 years old, neglected her health.

Izabella yearned to be brimming with witality, enjoying the best moments of life, and free from the shackles of a lackluster marriage and the torment of

cancer.

Presley affectionately patted her head, reminiscent of their past. “With the advancements in medical science today, as long as you don’t give up and undergo treatment and surgery, there may be…” His words trailed off as he noticed the reddening of Izabella’s eyes

Stroking the withered leaves, Izabella whispered, “So, tell me, what is the success rate of the surgery? Is it 50%, 20%, or perhaps a mere 0.1%?” Presley remained silent, his lips pursed in solemn contemplation.

“Forget it,” Izabella forced a crooked smile, that shred of hope isn’t worth it.”

She understood what Presley meant. Who wouldn’t want to live and have a healthy body? But she had never heard of anyone surviving late–stage stomach cancer…

Izabella clenched her hand, crushing the dry leaves which fluttered to the ground through her fingers.