Chapter 133 - One Hundred and Thirty-Three
Chapter One Hundred and Thirty-Three
Alicia’s POV
I carried the tea tray down the long hallway toward Pa Wood’s study, my footsteps muffled by the expensive Persian runner that stretched the length of the corridor. The late afternoon sun filtered through the tall windows, casting elongated shadows that seemed to follow me as I walked. This had become part of my routine over the past few months, bringing Pa Wood his afternoon tea at exactly four o’clock, a ritual he insisted upon with the kind of quiet authority that made refusal impossible.
The door to his study was slightly ajar, and I knocked gently before pushing it open with my hip, careful not to spill the delicate china cups that rattled softly against their saucers. Pa Wood was sitting behind his massive mahogany desk, his reading glasses perched on his nose as he reviewed what looked like contract documents, his weathered hands moving slowly across the pages as if each word required significant effort to process.
"Your tea, Pa Wood," I said, setting the tray down on the small table near his leather armchair, the same spot where we’d shared countless conversations over the months since I’d married into this family.
He looked up, and I noticed immediately that something was different about him today. His usually sharp eyes seemed clouded, tired in a way I hadn’t seen before, and there was a slight tremor in his hand as he removed his glasses and set them aside. He rose from his desk with visible effort, each movement deliberate and slow, as if his body was protesting the simple act of standing.
"Thank you, Alicia," he said, his voice carrying that same commanding tone despite the obvious fatigue that lined his features. "You’re very punctual. I appreciate that about you."
I poured the tea, adding the exact amount of honey he preferred, no milk, and handed him the cup. He took it with both hands, something he’d never done before, and I felt a flutter of concern in my chest as I watched him settle into his armchair with what looked like relief.
"Are you feeling well?" I asked, taking my usual seat across from him, my own cup warming my hands as I studied his face for signs of what might be troubling him.
He waved a dismissive hand, but the gesture lacked its usual force and conviction. "Just a headache that won’t seem to go away, nothing that warrants any concern or fussing." He took a long sip of his tea, closing his eyes briefly as if the simple act of drinking required his full concentration. "Getting old, I suppose, though I’ve never been one to admit such things easily. The body has a way of reminding you of your mortality whether you want to acknowledge it or not."