The Year I Was the Other Woman To Myself novel Chapter 373

Following the address Donald gave her, Penelope arrived at a garden estate nestled at the foot of a hill. A small stone plaque hung on the low wooden gate, engraved with the words: Dust Dancing in Light.

She pushed the gate open and was greeted by cascades of vibrant daisies—white, yellow, pink, red—dotting the green foliage and stretching up the slope as far as the eye could see. It took her a moment to find a path upward, carved through a thicket of camellias.

As she ascended the stone steps, she brushed against the tightly clustered blossoms, sending a shower of crimson petals to the ground. Some landed on her shoes and cuffs, only to be swept up by the wind and dance before her eyes. The higher she climbed, the clearer the garden became. It was a terraced floral paradise covering the entire hillside.

Past the camellias, she found a field of begonias, then jasmine, gardenias, and cosmos. In the distance, a spectacular bloom of lisianthus painted the landscape. It was an overwhelming, breathtaking sight.

Then she saw him. Donald, the dazzling movie star, was dressed as a gardener, watering a patch of chrysanthemums. Every flower in the garden was radiant, a clear testament to the immense care and love poured into it.

He saw her, gave a small wave, and turned off the hose. “Thank you for making the trip out here.”

Penelope looked at his friendly smile and felt a wave of disgust. “It’s an hour and a half drive from the city. Yes, it was quite a hassle.”

Donald looked slightly awkward. “I was hoping the sight of these flowers would make the trip worthwhile for you, Ms. Laurier.”

“If you dragged me all the way out here just to show off your garden, Mr. Bishop, I would say you have a serious lack of consideration.”

“Alright, you’ve got me. There is something I need your help with,” Donald said with a resigned sigh.

“My help?” Penelope arched an eyebrow.

“This way, Ms. Laurier. Please.”

Donald led the way up the path, and after a moment’s hesitation, Penelope followed. At the top of the hill stood a small, charming blue house with a large picture window. Outside, Donald gestured for her to sit at a stone table and poured her a cup of hot tea.

Penelope shook her head. She had never intended to voice her anger or resentment toward Donald or the Bishops, but they kept appearing before her, flaunting their deep family bonds. It was sickening. “I’m sorry, but I don’t have time to chit-chat, Mr. Bishop. If there’s nothing else…”

“I would like to borrow the painting you have—the one by Edith—to display at an exhibition,” he said quickly.

For a moment, Penelope wanted to laugh. “You’re organizing a solo exhibition for Edith? Did you get her permission?”

“If only I could contact her.”

“Hah.”

“But perhaps she might show up at the exhibition, don’t you think?”