Chapter 163: Unveiling Us [IV]
His words were a brand, searing into the frantic beat of my pulse.
He didn’t rub it in. He simply straightened up, the predatory glint in his eyes softening into something unreadable, almost... weary.
He went back to the chair, not with the languid grace of before, but with the crisp efficiency of a man closing a deal. He sat, crossed one leg over the other, and smoothed the crease in his trousers. The storm had passed. The cold front had moved in.
The silence that fell between us was a different kind. It wasn’t charged with unspoken desire anymore; it was heavy with the weight of his victory.
I watched him, expecting him to pick up his phone, to retreat into his world of stocks and mergers, but he didn’t. He just watched me, his gaze steady, waiting. For what, I didn’t know. For me to cry? To apologize? To break?
I would do none of them. I lifted my chin, the gesture costing me more than I wanted to admit.
Just as I was about to speak, to say something cutting that would surely start the war anew, a sharp knock on the door shattered the charged stillness.
"Enter," Adrien said, his voice low but steady.
The door opened—and two men stepped inside. Tall. Broad. Silent. They looked like they’d been carved out of stone and trained to kill without blinking. One of them had a jagged scar slicing through his eyebrow. The other had a neck tattoo that disappeared beneath his collar. Neither smiled. They didn’t look like nurses. They looked like the type of men who disposed of bodies without asking names. They looked... familiar.
My eyes widened, darting between the two hulking figures. They did look like they belonged in a dark alley at 3 AM, not a sterile hospital room. But then my gaze snagged on their attire. Bright clothes? One wore a neon yellow track jacket, the other a vibrant turquoise polo, both so garish they practically hummed with an unsettling energy. It was like a caricature, a grotesque parody of normal visitors. It made them even more unsettling, somehow, this jarring clash of appearance and context.
Each carried paper bags—crisp, white, branded with gold-stamped logos of a restaurant I was pretty sure required a waitlist and an NDA.
They moved in perfect sync, clearing the side table with military efficiency. Within seconds, the space was transformed: linen cloths, silverware, elegant plating. Five star-level delicacies filled the room with warmth and spice—lobster bisque, seared scallops, wagyu beef, lemon soufflé, handmade pasta so delicate it looked like silk and some kind of glazed duck that smelled like heaven and sin.