The Wedding That Never Was Chapter 23

On the meticulously decorated stage, several cameras stood ready.

Below, tens of thousands of spectators chanted one name. A name that once broke their hearts.

They thought they would never see her again. But the news of "Ilara Vaughn's Resurrection" fell into everyone's eyes like snowflakes.

Spotlights lit up one by one. In the focal point of all gazes, that familiar slender figure still wore a dazzling red dress.

The silky satin flowed like blood, outlining her body with thrilling beauty.

This was Ilara's comeback concert, two years later.

Bright red paint adorned her exquisitely beautiful face. The projection screen behind her slowly displayed the theme of this concert—

"Flesh and Blood."

A strange and cruel name. Yet, under that clear and melodious voice, it became beautiful.

It was like a story being told. And these stories were about the life of a person named Ilara Vaughn.

Besides her old hits, the most important part of this concert was three brand new works: "Growing Pains," "A Dream Waking Up," and "My Flesh and Blood."

The first song was about a greedy mother. After squandering her money, her insatiable gaze turned to her two daughters.

I walked barefoot on the edge of the stage, a faint smile on my lips, humming softly.

"Peel my skin to achieve your beauty, have you heard the weeping of my withered soul..."

"The parasite claims vulnerability to suck life, the nutrients she takes are more than just a day's worth..."

I dedicated this song to the Ilara of the first twenty years.

The second song told of a woman trapped in a prosperous dream called love, unable to wake up.

"Love letters turn to ash, how can love that fell from a high building be retrieved?"

This line was the verdict I passed on the ten years before I turned thirty.

The third song was about how a withered skeleton grew flesh and blood again.

I wanted to give this song to my future self.

During my treatment abroad, the pain was almost unbearable.

But the experience of dying once told me that death brings no salvation.

It only brings hell to those who truly love me.

So I entered the chemotherapy room again and again. Doctors and fellow patients praised my optimism and resilience.

In that warm environment, no matter how painful it was, my depression never recurred. Not even once.

Three months before returning home, I was told for the first time that there was hope for a cure.

I was ecstatic. But Leo was even happier than I was.

So for the remaining time, we spent almost every day in treatment.

When I was in rehab, Leo insisted on putting aside his work to assist me himself, even though he had hired the best caregiver.

I looked at the person smiling and applauding for me in the audience through teary eyes. That was a tacit understanding only we shared.

Only he knew how much effort Ilara spent to return to this stage.

And only I knew how much effort Leo spent for Ilara's today.

Not far from them, Adrian sat quietly, witnessing it all.

Rarely, he felt no anger.

At this moment, the pain in his heart far outweighed his jealousy.

He knew who the second song was about. No one knew better than Adrian.

He also understood better than anyone why this song existed.

Adrian looked up, his dim gaze fixed on the center of the venue.

He finally heard a song Ilara sang for him, just in time.

What a pity, it was the last one.

What a pity, it was this one.