Chapter 817

Rosalind, Lucian, Julian, and Reginald gathered for a round of golf. Rosalind partnered with Lucian, while Julian naturally teamed up with Reginald. The stakes were set—best two out of three.

Julian gripped his club with practiced ease. As the heir to Blackwood Industries, he had been swinging clubs since childhood, his reputation on the green well-earned.

A smirk curled his lips as he glanced at Rosalind. "Don't expect me to go easy on you. Prepare to lose."

Rosalind arched a brow. "Big words. Let's see if you can back them up."

Julian's confidence didn't waver. He adjusted his stance, took a smooth swing, and sent the ball soaring—straight into the hole on the first try.

Reginald clapped. "Impressive."

Golf was second nature to Julian. He turned to Rosalind with a triumphant grin. "One point to me. Now, let's see what Mr. Graves can do."

Rosalind knew Julian was skilled, but she wasn’t sure about Lucian’s abilities. She shot him a nervous glance. "How good are you at this?"

Lucian’s expression remained unreadable. He met her gaze, a flicker of amusement in his eyes. "Nervous?"

"Obviously. I’d like to win."

Lucian began undoing the buttons of his tailored black jacket. His fingers moved with deliberate precision, revealing the crisp white shirt beneath. The motion was so familiar—it reminded her of Everett.

His deep voice pulled her back. "What are you staring at?"

Rosalind flushed. "Nothing. Is that button stuck?"

Lucian’s lips quirked. "Maybe you could help?"

She understood—he wanted to play unhindered. Grateful he hadn’t refused, she stepped closer. "Of course."

Her fingers brushed against the cool silver buttons, undoing them carefully. Standing this close, she suddenly realized how intimate the act felt. Heat crept up her cheeks.

Lucian noticed. "You're blushing."

"I am not."

His chuckle was low, teasing. "Liar."

The words echoed something Everett had once said. Rosalind pushed the thought away, focusing on the last button.

"Done."

"Thanks."

Lucian shrugged off the jacket and handed it to her. "Hold this."

She took it, the fabric still warm from his body. The weight of it in her hands felt strangely personal—more so than she’d expected.