Chapter 126

Three days after visiting the orphanage, Stella Valentine was revising blueprints in the design department when her phone buzzed.

A message from Mr. Alistair appeared: "Stella, Oliver's mother has passed away."

Her charcoal pencil slipped from her fingers and snapped in two.

"Ms. Valentine?" Quentin Roland looked up at the sound.

She bent to pick up the broken pieces. "Just clumsy hands."

Quentin frowned. "You're pale. Should you rest in the lounge?"

"I need to take half a day off."

"Go ahead. You've been pushing yourself too hard since Mr. Valence left for his business trip. But Katrina's order—"

"It'll be done on time."

Stella grabbed her bag and rushed out. A black Maybach waited around the corner. The driver opened the door. "Mr. Alistair sent me."

"To Oliver's home?"

"The funeral home."

The words stabbed through her heart. Memories of her parents' and the Rolands' funerals six years ago flooded back—her standing outside the columbarium in mourning white, Adrian Roland three meters away yet worlds apart.

"Ms. Valentine?" The driver asked gently, "Mr. Alistair wanted me to confirm—are you sure you want to go?"

"Is he there?"

"Yes."

As the car rolled over a speed bump, Stella gripped the seatbelt. "...Never mind. Take me home."

Martha was simmering soup in the kitchen. "You're back early! Some ginseng broth?"

"No, thank you." She forced a smile. "I'll nap."

The master bed still carried Mr. Alistair's scent. As she turned, her fingers brushed something unfamiliar—a silver-gray tie tucked between the mattress and frame. Her first glimpse into his sartorial preferences.

Another tie lay in her wallet. Navy blue, faintly scented with cologne. Left behind by Adrian last year, foolishly kept like a keepsake. Now she tossed it into the trash without hesitation.

She awoke to familiar warmth pressed against her lips.

"My tie..." Mr. Alistair's voice was rough.

Stella retrieved her wallet from under the pillow. "Here."

He cradled it like treasure against his chest. "Thank God it's safe."

"Important?"

"My mother's last belonging."

The answer made her heart tremble. His kisses traced her silhouette in the dark, mapping her contours with devotion.

"Mr. Alistair, today I—"

"I know." He cut her off. "Oliver will be cared for. I promise."

Suddenly, she seized his wrist. "May I ask something?"

"About the girl I mentioned when we first met?"

"Was it me?"

The air froze. His breathing grew labored, warmth ghosting over her collarbone.

"Let's trade secrets." His voice shifted. "One question each."

"Agreed."

"It was you." Each syllable landed like a hammer. "Always you."

Her eyes burned. The final puzzle piece clicked into place.

"My turn." Calloused fingers grazed her cheek. "Stella, do you love me?"

"Yes."

That single word made the man above her shudder violently. His next kiss was wildfire—possessive, desperate, branding her soul.

"Again," he demanded between ragged breaths.

"I love you, Mr. Alistair."

The metallic whisper of a belt unfastening. Fabric rustled as his voice dropped an octave: "Tonight, I'll make sure you remember how it feels to be loved."

Moonlight painted their entwined shadows on the wall—two vines finally finding their way home.