CHAPTER 64: COULDN’T STOP HIM

The morning at the Camden estate had been... eventful for Rachel, to say the least.

Rachel had arrived early, just as the sun broke through the thick curtains of the manor, her bag slung over her shoulder and her usual determined expression fixed firmly in place.

It was a Saturday and they were both alone with the butler taking his day off.

It’s been over a week already but they still wouldn’t stop bickering around. And no matter how determined she was to do her job, Mr Camden didn’t always make it easy for her.

As expected, Mr. Camden had met her entrance with a sharp remark about how he didn’t need "a babysitter hovering over his every move."

Rachel had replied with her steady, practiced patience — though not without her own touch of fire — reminding him that if he didn’t want her around, he shouldn’t have agreed to let her care for him in the first place.

The hours that followed were a careful dance between compliance and defiance. Rachel prepared his breakfast — something light and balanced — but he had insisted on adding extra butter to his toast when she wasn’t looking. She caught him, of course, and they bickered until finally, with an exaggerated sigh, he let her scrape half of it off.

Later, she suggested he rest while she went over his medication schedule, but instead, he wandered into the sitting room, insisting he wasn’t an invalid.

She found him standing near the tall bookshelves, stubbornly trying to reach for a volume that clearly wasn’t worth the strain. Rachel had snatched it down for him before his shoulders could ache from stretching, scolding him until he waved her off with a grumble about "bossy woman."

By noon, she’d managed to coax him into a quiet rhythm. He had tea while she tidied the kitchen and filled his pillbox for the week. Their bickering softened to companionable silence, and Rachel almost allowed herself to believe the rest of the day would be uneventful.

But of course, with Mr. Camden, it never was.

Now, Rachel was in the garden, trimming a few herbs she intended to bring back to the kitchen, when she heard the faint clink of metal from the other side of the yard. Her brows pinched together. She hadn’t left any tools lying around.

Her suspicion was confirmed when she rounded the corner and saw Mr. Camden, sleeves rolled up, bent stubbornly over a bag of soil near the rose bushes.

A watering can stood beside him, half-full, and he was gripping a small shovel with the determination of a man refusing to admit his limits.

"Mr. Camden!" Rachel’s voice shot across the garden like an arrow. She dropped the herbs in her basket and marched toward him. "What on earth do you think you’re doing?"

He didn’t even flinch. He was used to this by now. "What does it look like I’m doing? These roses won’t tend themselves," he said casually.

Her hands went straight to her hips. "You shouldn’t be bending like that, let alone hauling bags of soil! You could—"

"I could what? Fall over?" He straightened slightly, shooting her a pointed look. "Rachel, I’ve been tending these roses longer than you’ve been alive. I know what I’m capable of."

Rachel stepped closer, her eyes narrowing. "This isn’t about pride. It’s about your health. You promised me you’d take it easy—"

"Promises are for men waiting to die." He jabbed the shovel into the soil, his face set in grim determination. "I’m not waiting. Not yet. Besides, this doesn’t affect your work in anyway. I know how much you need a job. Well, you can keep but just let me do things my way," he said and then focused his attention back on what he was doing.

Rachel’s chest tightened. She understood that defiance — it wasn’t recklessness, not really. It was fear hidden under stubbornness, a refusal to let his illness strip him of the things that still gave him purpose. But understanding didn’t make it less dangerous. Not only was he making her job difficult, he was putting his fragile health on the line.

"You’re going to make yourself worse," she said firmly, crouching to reach for the shovel. "Give me that. I’ll do it," she said, determined to stop him from hurting himself.

He pulled it back with surprising strength, his jaw locking. "I said I can manage."

Before she could argue again, he bent lower to lift the bag of soil, his breath coming heavier with the effort. Rachel’s heart leapt into her throat.

She needed to do something to stop him now.

"Stop—"

The word barely left her lips before what she feared the most happened. Henry’s body swayed, his grip faltered, and the color drained from his face.

Rachel’s eyes widened in horror when she saw how he seemed to struggling to breath.

"Mr. Camden!" she screamed in horror, fear gripping her mind.

The shovel clattered to the ground as he collapsed to one knee, then the other, his hand clutching at his chest. Rachel lunged forward, catching him under the arms just before he hit the soil completely. Panic surged hot and sharp through her veins.

This can’t be happening. Not here. What was she supposed to do? How could he be so stubborn and just wouldn’t listen to her?

"Stay with me!" she begged, trying to ease him onto the grass. "Don’t you dare close your eyes, you hear me? Don’t you dare!" she screamed when his eyelids started closing, perhaps from heaviness.

Nothing is going to happen to him. Rachel kept chanting in her head.

His breathing was ragged, shallow. His lips moved as though he wanted to speak, but no words came. The more he tried to speak, the more difficult it was for him to breath.

"Don’t say anything, please. Just reserve—— Oh my God, no!" Rachel said frantically when Mr Camden fainted.

Rachel’s mind raced, thinking of which would be easier. To take him to the hospital or to call the doctor over. Once she’d decided, she immediately fumbled for her phone, her hands trembling as she dialed the emergency number she’d memorized.

The seconds crawled like hours as she explained the situation, her voice frantic but controlled. Help was on the way.

She stayed kneeling beside him, her hand gripping his tightly. "You’re going to be fine. Do you hear me? You’re too stubborn to give up now," she said, trying to keep herself from breaking down.

When the doctor arrived twenty minutes later, Rachel all but sagged with relief. But her relief was cut short when another car pulled into the driveway right after — sleek, polished, and unmistakably expensive.

From it stepped a young woman with striking features — sharp cheekbones, glossy hair pulled back neatly, eyes that mirrored Mr. Camden’s stubborn glint.

She’d seen this face before. She was in one of the photo frames in Mr Camden’s study. Though she hadn’t met her before, nor asked about her, Rachel didn’t need anyone to tell this woman was Mr Camden’s granddaughter.

Rachel’s stomach sank.

The doctor moved quickly to assess Mr. Camden, who was slowly regaining consciousness but still too weak to speak. Rachel gave him space, her hands still shaking from the scare, but the granddaughter zeroed in on her instantly.

"What happened?" the young woman demanded, her tone clipped, and accusatory. "Why is he like this? You’re supposed to take care of him, aren’t you? So?"

Rachel opened her mouth, ready to explain, but the words tangled in her throat. How was she supposed to explain it to her?

She swallowed, forcing herself to speak. "He... he overexerted himself in the garden. I told him not to, but—"

"You told him?" The granddaughter’s eyes narrowed, her voice rising. "You’re supposed to be caring for him. Preventing this. What kind of caretaker lets their patient collapse outside in the dirt?"

The words struck like blows. Rachel stiffened, guilt mixing with frustration. "I was with him all morning. He insisted he could manage. You know how he is—"

"That’s your excuse?" the young woman cut in, her arms folding tightly across her chest. "That you ’couldn’t stop him’? My grandfather could have died, and you’re telling me it’s because you couldn’t stand your ground?"

Rachel’s lips pressed into a hard line. She wanted to argue, to explain how impossible it was to chain down a man like Henry Camden, but the granddaughter’s glare made it clear that no explanation whatsoever would satisfy her.

She didn’t care what Rachel had to say. To her, Rachel had done bad just by explaining to Henry and not taking charge but was that even possible? To control someone as strong-willed as Henry? Rachel thought bitterly.

The doctor called out for assistance, and the granddaughter immediately hurried to her grandfather’s side, brushing past Rachel as though she didn’t exist.

Rachel stepped back, her chest aching, her throat tight. She’d done everything she could. She’d warned him, begged him, even tried to take the shovel away. But all the granddaughter saw was failure.

Rachel clenched her fists at her sides, swallowing down the sting of unfairness. She would not cry. Not here. Not now. He should get better first.