Chapter 137: Why Do I Feel Like Someone Is Watching Us?
The morning sunlight spills across the garden like something poured from a vessel too full to hold it—thick, golden, almost tangible. It filters through the canopy of ancient trees, fracturing into a thousand scattered shards that dance across the grass, across my bare skin, across the trembling surface of the marble fountains. The air is still cool, carrying the memory of night, but the warmth is already pressing in, patient and unhurried, like a hand reaching through the hours toward noon.
I walk slowly, my bare feet brushing through the grass. Dew clings to my skin, cool and gentle, dampening the hem of my night suit. My hair is still tousled from sleep, uneven strands falling across my forehead, and my eyes still carry the last traces of drowsiness.
I stretch my arms above my head, feeling the pull in my shoulders and the slow release of lingering tension. I take a deep breath. The air is clean. Fresh. Carrying the faint sweetness of blooming flowers and the earthy scent of dew-soaked soil.
I like it here.
The day is slowly warming, the sunlight growing bolder as morning stretches toward noon. But these early hours are perfect—cool enough to feel refreshing, warm enough to be comfortable.
A servant appears at the edge of my vision, her footsteps soundless against the grass. She carries a tray with the practiced precision of someone who has done this countless times. Her head is bowed, her eyes fixed on the ground. She stops at a respectful distance.
On the tray sits a glass of freshly pressed orange juice, the pulp still swirling faintly beneath the surface. Beside it is a plate of fruit cut with meticulous care—mango slices fanned neatly, kiwi arranged in overlapping circles, berries scattered like tiny jewels.
"Sir, please have something."
Her voice is soft. Careful.
I barely glance at her.
"No need."
She doesn’t move. The tray remains steady in her hands.
"Sir..." She pauses. "It’s morning. The juice will help lift your mood."
There’s something in her voice—not insistence, but hope. Like she’s been entrusted with a small task she doesn’t want to fail.
I look at her. She still won’t meet my eyes.
"Please have some."
Without another word, I take the glass from the tray, more to end the silence than anything else. The cool glass settles against my palm. I take a sip. Sweet. Fresh. A hint of citrus lingers on my tongue.
She places the tray on the nearby table, bows lightly, and steps back.
"Please let me know if you need anything."
I don’t answer. She bows lightly before turning away, her steps as silent as her arrival, disappearing into the garden as though she had never been there.
I take another sip and let my gaze wander across the garden.
The staff here is strange. They don’t even dare to lift their eyes.
But maybe that’s a good thing. No screaming minds. No unwanted noise. Just silence.
The thought settles quietly in my chest. I hadn’t realized how tired I’d become of noise—how much I’d started craving moments like this, where nothing demands anything from me.
My phone vibrates in my pocket, breaking the stillness. I pull it out, the screen glowing beneath the morning sun.
Ian.
I unlock the message.
Sir, Mr. Chairman asked me to remind you that you need to visit Mr. Kelyan while you’re in X Country.
I set the glass on the nearby table and settle onto a couch beneath the shade of the trees. Warm sunlight filters through the leaves, scattering patches of gold across my nightshirt and skin. The cushion sinks beneath my weight as I type my reply.
Yes, I remember. Tell Dad I’ll visit Uncle Kelyan soon. And email me the details of the recent project.
His reply comes almost immediately.
Understood, sir.
I turn off the screen and set the phone aside.
Uncle Kelyan. Ken’s father. I haven’t seen him since I was nineteen.
I lean back, letting the sunlight wash over my face, feeling its warmth settle into my skin.
Maybe I should visit him this evening.
The thought drifts away, dissolving into the sound of the fountain and the gentle rustle of leaves. I let it go, letting myself sink into the stillness. Just before my eyes close completely, I see him.
Silas.
Quick footsteps. Uneven breaths.
He walks toward me across the grass, his hair a complete mess, his eyes still heavy with sleep, his lips pressed into a stubborn little pout. His steps are hurried, almost stumbling, as though he woke up and ran straight here without stopping to think.
He stops in front of me, breathing unevenly, and presses a note into my hand before I can even open my mouth.
I look down.
When you woke up, why didn’t you wake me?
I look back at him. His face is flushed—not from running, but from something else. Frustration. Hurt. A quiet, stubborn complaint he doesn’t know how to put into words.
"Because you—"
Before I can finish, he quickly presses another note into my palm.
No matter how peacefully I’m sleeping, wake me up when you wake up.
I look at him—the stubborn set of his jaw, the faint pout on his lips, the way he refuses to meet my eyes even while standing so close I can feel the warmth of his body.
A smile tugs at my lips.
My little sulking puppy.
I rise from the couch and step closer, closing the distance between us until there’s barely any space left. My hand slides around his waist, drawing him gently against me. I can feel the faint tremble running through him.
"Think of this as payback," I murmur. "For all the times you left me alone in bed."
He turns his head away, still pouting. Still stubborn. I pinch his cheek lightly between my fingers.
"Now you know how I felt."
He still refuses to look at me.
"Look at me."
He stubbornly shakes his head.
No.
I laugh—sudden and genuine, the sound escaping before I can stop it.
"Come on. Look at me."
He shakes his head again.
No.
I pinch his cheek once more, stretching it gently.
"My little puppy. Can you stop sulking?"
He stubbornly shakes his head again, and another laugh slips from my lips, blending with the rustling leaves, the gentle murmur of the fountain, and the quiet rhythm of the morning.
I lean in and press a kiss to his cheek, my voice dropping to a murmur.
"You’re so adorable."
Then my gaze drifts toward the flowers. They’re moving too much.
I stare at them for a long moment, searching the shadows between the blooms.
Nothing.
Just the breeze. Just the garden swaying peacefully beneath the morning sun.
Why do I feel like someone is watching us?