Forced Marriage: My Wife, My Redemption-Chapter 159: Lunch with Donald

Jessica turned around to leave, her steps quick and firm. But Donald reached out and stopped her gently.

"What about her treatment?" he asked, his voice low, almost desperate.

Jessica paused. Her eyes softened, and she spoke calmly. "It will cost a lot... I’ll need to find some rare herbs, ones that are difficult to get."

Donald frowned. "I don’t care about the cost. The Santiagos are not poor. No matter how expensive it gets, it won’t ruin them," he said, trying to convince himself as much as her.

She nodded. "For now, I’ll leave some prescriptions with the dean. It’ll help ease her pain and stabilize her a little while I go looking for the herbs."

Donald felt a wave of relief wash over him. "Thank you," he said quickly, his eyes filled with gratitude. Then, after a small pause, he asked, "Would you... like to have lunch with me?"

Jessica froze for a second. That lump rose again in her throat, choking her response. She didn’t want this. She didn’t want any of it. She wanted peace. A quiet life away from all this chaos. But every time she saw Donald—or his family—her heart tangled with feelings she couldn’t understand. Pity. Guilt. Confusion. Curiosity. Fear.

She looked at him. His eyes were pleading. Gentle. Hopeful. And she couldn’t say no.

With a heavy sigh, she nodded. "Alright."

Donald’s face brightened. A faint smile tugged at his lips. He quickly stepped aside to make a call, pulling out his phone and dialing the dean.

"Keep everyone away from my mother’s room," he said firmly. "Put someone on guard duty. I don’t want anyone in or out without my permission."

Then he turned to Jessica and gestured toward his car. They both left the hospital. Donald drove, quiet at first, his hands firm on the wheel. Jessica sat beside him, lost in her thoughts. Her security team followed in a car behind, keeping their distance.

The sky outside was clear, but Jessica’s mind was a storm.

She could still see Lady Matilda’s fragile body on that hospital bed. The pale skin. The weak breath. It reminded her too much of her mother—her mother who had suffered in silence, who had died without a word.

She had been just a child, but the memory never left. Her mother’s eyes. Her weak voice. The way her cold hand had clutched hers for the last time.

The pain was still raw. Still sharp. Still alive.

She had always believed something was wrong with her mother’s death. And when she started studying medicine, the pieces slowly began to make sense. But her mother had so few connections. So few friends. It was hard to trace anything. Still, she kept trying.

Donald spoke a few times during the drive, but Jessica barely heard him. Her mind was far away. Finally, he reached out and touched her arm gently.

"Are you okay?"

She turned slowly. Her eyes met his. For a brief moment, it wasn’t Donald’s face she saw—but her mother’s. That same shape. That same sadness. She blinked quickly, pushing the memory away.

"I’m fine," she whispered. "Just a little lost in thought."

Donald didn’t push. He nodded and looked ahead. "We’re here," he said after a moment. "I hope you’ll like the food. The place is quiet."

Jessica gave a tiny smile. She was glad he didn’t ask more.

She reached into her bag and pulled out her sunglasses. Sliding them on, she ran her fingers through her long wavy hair and let it fall over her shoulders. A few strands fell over her face, hiding her expression.

She stepped out of the car and scanned the street. Her guards were parked discreetly nearby. Her eyes drifted to the other side of the road.

And then she froze.

Desmond Allen. George Brown.

Her breath caught in her throat.

"What kind of coincidence is this?" she murmured. "A gathering of vultures..."

"Give me a minute," she told Donald.

She quickly pulled out her phone and typed some commands. Her guards received the message. A moment later, she saw them move discreetly, vanishing from sight.

She exhaled, the tightness in her chest easing.

Then she turned back to Donald and gave a small nod.

They entered the eatery. The place was quiet, warm, and filled with the scent of good food.

Jessica glanced around. The pain in her chest was still there, but she masked it well. Just like she always had.

Jessica took a deep breath and steadied her heart. She stepped into the eatery with Donald walking quietly beside her. Heads turned in their direction—some in admiration, some in curiosity. The striking sight of a handsome man and a graceful woman entering together always drew attention.

Jessica walked with poise, her heels clicking softly on the polished floor as she chose a table near the large floor-to-ceiling window. The table gave her a perfect view of the street outside, where cars passed and people walked by in a rush of life. She liked being able to watch the outside world—it gave her a sense of distance, a sense of control.

A waiter approached with a polite bow and a warm smile, handing them both menus. Jessica glanced through hers quickly and made her order: fried rice with grilled chicken, a spoonful of creamy coleslaw, and a bottle of chilled yogurt.

Donald ordered a simpler meal: a bowl of soup, a light side of bread, a plate of sliced fruit for dessert, and a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice.

As the waiter walked away, silence fell between them. It wasn’t just any silence—it was thick, almost awkward. Like two people trying to speak but unsure where to begin.

Donald watched her for a while. He seemed deep in thought before he finally spoke.

"May I ask where you were born?" he asked gently, his eyes not leaving hers.

Jessica looked up, a bit surprised by the question. "Here," she replied slowly. "In this country. But... why ask where I was born instead of something more common, like my name?"

Donald gave a soft smile. "I did ask your name earlier—before I pleaded with you to help my mother," he explained. "And the dean said your name was Jessica Brown."

At the mention of that name, Jessica’s face fell. She hated that name—Brown. It felt like a weight, a name that carried pain, betrayal, and memories she had tried so hard to bury. She had never truly accepted it. She had kept it all this while only to avoid drawing attention, to avoid unnecessary questions. But deep inside, that name meant nothing to her. In fact, it hurt.

Donald noticed the change in her expression. Her eyes dimmed, her jaw tightened just slightly, and her body stiffened. He had been in business for over twenty years. Reading people came naturally to him. And in that moment, he saw it—regret, sadness, and a silent kind of rejection.

"It seems you don’t like being called by that name," he said softly, his voice filled with emotion. "So... what would you rather I call you?"

His gaze was deep, focused, like he was trying to find something in her face—maybe a resemblance, maybe an answer.

Jessica looked away, her heart suddenly uneasy. Was she being too obvious? Was she showing too much in her face, in her eyes?

She sighed and tried to clear her thoughts. Why do I only see pain in his eyes? she wondered. Why don’t I feel scared around him? Why does he look so much like... her?

It was too much.

She wanted to leave. She didn’t want these questions. She didn’t want these emotions. She didn’t want the past to catch up with her.

Jessica lowered her eyes to the table, trying to stay calm. I need to stay away from them, she reminded herself. Far away. No matter what feelings try to pull me back, I’ve had enough of that world.

Their food arrived not long after. The plates were arranged neatly, and the aroma of hot food filled the space between them. For a while, they both focused on eating. Donald seemed cheerful, like the simple act of sharing a meal brought him peace.

He watched Jessica quietly as she ate, a soft warmth in his eyes. She reminded him of someone he had loved dearly—his sister. There was no doubt now. Jessica was her reflection. Her eyes, the shape of her face, even her quiet grace. It all mirrored the past.

But Jessica? She didn’t feel the same warmth.

For her, this meal was just something she needed to get through. A small act of gratitude for the trust Donald had shown her regarding Lady Matilda’s care. She didn’t want more than that.

She chewed slowly, her eyes occasionally flicking toward her phone, waiting for a message from her guards. As soon as she got the signal, she would leave. She had done her part. She didn’t need anything else—not family ties, not sympathy, not confusion.

Still, a small part of her—buried deep—ached quietly. Because somewhere in the man sitting across from her was a connection to a mother she never truly got to know. A mother whose life ended in quiet pain. And now, as much as she wanted to run, the past kept chasing her.

Her fingers tightened slightly around her spoon.