Chapter 829

Rosalind felt utterly foolish.

In this twisted dance between them, she had been the only one running forward with open arms.

She burned to demand answers from him: Why? Why did he treat her this way?

Her fingers trembled as she pulled out her phone, navigating to Lucian's chat.

Words poured from her fingertips—raw, unfiltered questions.

[Why did you vanish three years ago? What happened to the woman you married? Are you with Genevieve now? If she’s yours, why did you kiss me? Why touch me like that?]

Her mind was a storm of unspoken accusations.

Meanwhile, Lucian had just arrived at his penthouse. He stood in the bathroom, steam curling around him as he prepared to shower.

His phone buzzed in his hand. He glanced down, noticing Rosalind’s typing indicator flickering.

His pulse quickened. Was she finally going to speak her mind? He waited, anticipation coiling tight in his chest.

But the typing stopped. Started again. Then—nothing.

Frustration gnawed at him. He typed a single line.

[Talk to me.]

Rosalind’s breath hitched. What right did she even have to ask? What position was she in? The questions choked her, but sending them felt impossible.

Then, his message appeared.

[Talk to me.]

So like him—blunt, yet unreachable.

Her fingers hovered before she forced out a reply. [Thanks for today.]

Lucian’s lips quirked at her evasion. [That’s all you have to say?]

Confusion tangled her thoughts. Was he with Genevieve now? Or Reginald? Once, Reginald had called her by her first name. Now it was always "Ms. Fairchild."

[Am I interrupting? Don’t feel obligated to reply.]

He caught the dismissal and chuckled darkly. [Going to bed?]

[Yes.]

His response came swiftly. [I won’t be sleeping anytime soon.]

He couldn’t. Not with her haunting his thoughts.

Rosalind’s stomach twisted. If he were with Genevieve, he wouldn’t be going to bed early.

What were they doing together?

Earlier, in the dim bathroom, his body had been desperate, hungry. She had assumed he’d been alone all these years.

Clearly, she was wrong.

Without another word, she closed the app and turned off her phone.

Lucian set his phone on the marble counter, staring at his reflection. Slowly, he peeled off the sleek black mask, revealing the scars beneath.

Would she still want this ruined face?

She had once traced his features with worship. Now, she flinched.

Since the accident, he hadn’t cared what anyone thought—except her.

That flicker of fear in her eyes when she first saw him had nearly destroyed him.

He stepped under the icy spray, but the water did nothing to cool the fire in his veins. His mind replayed Rosalind’s boldness, her passion, the way she’d melted against him.

Sleep was impossible.

She had kept him awake for three years.

Every. Damn. Night.

With a rough exhale, he gave in, his hand sliding down.

Did Rosalind still love him?

Across town, Alistair was handling the fallout from the incident. Rosalind, withdrawn and despondent, was dragged out by Victoria for dinner.

They settled into a secluded booth at an upscale bistro.

Victoria pinched Rosalind’s chin. "Smile, darling. The world hasn’t ended."

But it sure felt like it had.