Chapter 233

“Was it Simmy who gave it to you?” I asked softly, peering anxiously into Steven’s eyes.

Steven avoided my gaze and deflected, “Stephie… How’s Grandma Rosie doing?”

He was changing the subject.

I always knew that there were too many secrets surrounding Steven. I had initially drawn close to him to unravel those very mysteries. Otherwise, Eason wouldn’t have been so

fixated on him.

Yet, the deeper I delved into our connection, the more I realized that not only did Steven harbor numerous secrets, but my original host, Stephany Larson, did as well.

To compound matters, I even began to question myself.

What hidden truth lay buried within my lost memories?

Why did Michael say that I had a psychological illness before? And what kind of illness

was that?

Was it a mere coincidence that I found myself reborn into Stephany’s body?

The more I pondered, the more terrifying the things seemed to me..

I brought Steven back to his ward. The nurse scolded him severely and resealed the punctured needle of the IV.

I held his hand and headed to Grandma Rosie’s ward, only to discover Michael had been there all

Grandma Rosie,” Michael said, attending to

frowned, feeling somewhat

him on a silver platter. He could barely take care

he was, being attentive in the ward.

care of her myself. You can go now,” I said, firmly as I

his gaze and remained

leaned against the head of

dearly

to Mike like that? He’s a nice, kind–hearted

who found out that I was sick and sent me to the hospital in time. If it weren’t for him, I might have never been able to see

startled, frowning as I stared at

seemed he had already ingratiated himself with Stephany’s grandmother long before this.

he

the doorway, Steven scrutinized Michael with cold eyes. It was as if he had encountered someone even more skilled at acting than himself.

my name softly.

Grandma Rosie, “Grandma Rosie, this is my husband, Steven

glanced at Steven, looking

visit me. Instead, Mike was the one who has been taking care

alone you. It’s

was well aware of my character, understanding just how much weight I placed on my

me that he had “killed“, or rather, the me who had

was immersed in the grief of my parents‘ death. My restless and depressive

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