Chapter 835

Rosalind scoffed, "Well, I certainly don't!"

Lucian let out a bitter laugh, cupping her face and pulling her into a searing kiss. Within moments, the salty taste of tears met his lips.

She was crying.

Lucian froze instantly, releasing her and sitting upright.

Though the pain had subsided, Rosalind still felt unsettled. She hastily adjusted her disheveled clothing. Her blouse was wrinkled beyond recognition, yet his trousers remained perfectly fastened—only his belt had been loosened.

After smoothing her appearance, Rosalind slid off the bed and turned to leave.

But a strong hand suddenly clamped around her wrist. Lucian held her firmly, tilting his head back to meet her gaze. "Do you find me repulsive now?"

Rosalind hesitated, her lips parting to respond.

Then, without warning, Lucian released her. "I understand. You may go."

Understand what?

But Rosalind wasn't in the mood to decipher his words. She pushed open the door and stepped into the hallway.

Leaning against the corridor wall, she drew a shaky breath. Everything that had transpired in the darkness left her mind in turmoil... Just then, the door creaked open, and Lucian emerged as well. He secured his mask back in place, instantly regaining his usual aristocratic demeanor.

Without a word, Rosalind turned on her heel and walked away.

At that moment, an executive approached. "Mr. Graves, you've been absent for quite some time."

Lucian's gaze lingered on Rosalind's retreating figure before replying, "Just needed some air."

The executive noticed Rosalind too. "Isn't that Ms. Fairchild?"

Lucian nodded curtly. "Indeed."

"Oh, by the way, Mr. Graves," the executive continued, "since you're still unmarried, many society daughters are vying for your attention. Someone asked me to inquire about your ideal type."

Rosalind hadn't gone far. Naturally, she overheard the question.

Seconds later, Lucian's deep, velvety voice carried down the hall. "Ms. Fairchild is exactly my type."

Others had asked Everett the same question years ago, and his answer had been identical: "Ms. Fairchild is my type."

Three years had passed, yet his preference remained unchanged. He had a type, alright—and it was Rosalind.

Rosalind's pulse quickened. She rounded the corner and vanished from sight.

Back in her apartment, Rosalind sank into the steaming bath, hoping to soothe her exhausted body.

Ding!

Her phone lit up.

She unlocked it to find a message from Lucian.

[Still in pain?]

She left it unanswered.

Ding!

Another notification. [I lost control earlier. I'm truly sorry for hurting you. I mean it.]

Still no reply.

Lucian stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows in his Quantum Innovations office, staring at his phone.

He knew she wanted space. Knew she was ignoring him.

Yet he typed another message. [Are you planning to see Julian?]

Silence.

Frustration coiled in his chest. His fingers flew across the screen. [There's still a slim chance my face could be restored. If I looked like my old self again... Would you still—]

He deleted the words before sending them.

Just then, a knock interrupted his thoughts.

"Enter," Lucian called.

The door opened, revealing his assistant, Nathaniel.

"Mr. Graves, we contacted the world's top reconstructive surgeon. He reviewed your case but... the damage is too extensive after three years. He declined the procedure."

Another rejection.

Lucian wasn't surprised anymore. Countless specialists had examined his scars, only to shake their heads in resignation.