Chapter 242

"Because..."

Because of the wedding beneath the crabapple blossoms. Because of the ring on her finger. Because she was Mr. Alistair's lawfully wedded wife.

Mr. Alistair was Edward Roland's grandson. She would always be a Roland.

"Because what?" Adrian pressed, stepping closer.

"None of your business." Stella turned away. "This is just a transaction. I agreed to play along for Celeste's sake—"

"For the child who needs a liver transplant. I know." His lips curved into a faint smile. "Whatever the reason, I'm glad we're standing together again. Don't worry. I've mobilized all resources to find a matching donor."

"Thank you."

"Stella, must we be so distant?"

She met his gaze squarely. "This is the distance we should keep. Adrian, I have no lingering feelings for you. None at all. What we had ended long ago. My heart belongs to someone else now. Everything I said earlier was just part of the act. Don't mistake it for anything more."

His smile froze.

"All an act?"

"Yes."

He laughed bitterly. "Fine. If you say it's an act, then it is. Get in the car. I'll take you back."

"No need—"

"Grandfather is watching from upstairs." Adrian gripped her wrist firmly. "If we're acting, let's commit to the role."

Stella glanced up at the hospital windows. The glare of sunlight obscured any figures behind the glass.

Before she could protest, he ushered her into the passenger seat. He leaned over to fasten her seatbelt, his movements practiced—as if he'd done it a thousand times before.

The engine hummed to life. Silence settled between them.

"You changed cars?" Stella studied the familiar Maybach interior. "I remember you only drove Porsches." The moment the words left her mouth, she regretted them. "Unless it's Wendy's preference. Forget I asked."

"Has nothing to do with her." His hand rested lightly on the steering wheel. "Just felt like trying something new."

"From a Porsche to a Maybach. Quite the leap."

"People change." His tone was flat. "Like how I never wore cologne before. Now I find eau de Cologne rather agreeable."

Her pulse jumped. "Do you... know something?"

"What should I know?"

"About Mr. Alistair."

Adrian gave a humorless smile. "Aside from your descriptions, I don't even know what he looked like. Until yesterday, I thought Victor Valence was 'Mr. Alistair.'"

She bit her lip.

The cologne. The Maybach. Could they really be coincidences?

"Why ask?" He glanced sideways. "Is there... something I should know?"

"No reason."

"That man—did he die overseas? Illness or accident?"

"Domestic. An accident."

"Is he buried in the same cemetery as your father?"

"I don't know where he's buried." Her voice trembled. "But I'll find out."

"From his family?"

"From his benefactor."

Adrian frowned. "Forgive my bluntness, but this 'Mr. Alistair' sounds highly suspicious. Appears out of nowhere, vanishes without a trace—not even a confirmed gravesite. Almost like an elaborate disappearing act..."

"What did you say?" Her head snapped up.

"Just theorizing." His eyes remained on the road. "He gains your trust, then conveniently dies in an 'accident' with no body to recover. You... didn't give him anything of value, did you?"

Stella let out a cold laugh. "Adrian, what exactly are you implying? I left our marriage with nothing—couldn't even afford surgery. What could he possibly have taken from me?"

"I only wanted to—"

"You have no right to question him!" she cut in sharply.

He studied her, his gaze heavy with self-mockery. "Do you love him that much?"

"Absolutely."

"More than you ever loved me?"

Stella held his stare. "Like you said—that was the past. There's a phrase for it: 'hindsight is 20/20.'"

The silence stretched until the car halted before the hotel.

She pushed the door open. Adrian's weary voice followed her: "...I understand."

Without turning back, she strode to the elevators. Only when the doors closed did the tension leave her body.

The mirror showed a face nearly unchanged from three years ago—just thinner. Mr. Alistair had once filled out her cheeks; grief hollowed them again. Her mother's care had recently restored some color.

The children were still waiting for their father to come home...

Fingers touched warm wetness. Only then did she realize she was crying.

Mr. Alistair, I almost mistook someone for you again today.

But just for a second.

It's alright if the world never knew you existed.

I remember.

Always.

——

Adrian returned straight to the office.

Wendy's breakup demands had cost him a full workday.

Though past business hours, New Frontier Group's employees still labored—a company culture upheld by generous overtime pay.

He found Penny Anderson dozing at her desk.

"Mr. Roland!" She jolted awake at his knock.

He moved to his desk. "Report."

After summarizing the day's affairs, she arranged documents for signing. Atop the pile lay a memo penned in elegant calligraphy.

"Unidentified visitor?" His finger paused on one entry.

"An elderly gentleman in a wheelchair, accompanied by a disabled man." Penny recalled. "He insisted you contact him immediately. Quite aggressive—demanded access to your office! As your secretary, I had to—"

"Leave."

"Pardon?"

"Now."

As Penny scurried out, Adrian dialed a number.

"Adrian." Xavier Atlante's voice crackled through.

"Uncle Xavier. You were looking for me?"

"What do you think?" The old man's snort was icy.