Chapter 57

The night was ink-black, the moonlight tracing Mr. Alistair's tall frame with a cold, silver outline.

Stella Valentine studied his profile, her heart stirring. How could such an exceptional man be so ruthlessly abandoned by a woman?

To the world, Mr. Alistair was nearly flawless—successful, gentle, considerate, exuding mature charm with every gesture. A man like him should have been the dream of countless women.

"Stella, what's on your mind?"

She snapped out of her thoughts, her fingers lightly tracing the stem of her wine glass. "Nothing. Just tired."

His voice was feather-soft. "You've been working too hard. You need rest."

"Mr. Alistair... may I ask you for a favor?"

"Is it about your daughter?"

"No." She bit her lip. "Do you know which orphanage in Houston is the most reliable?"

He raised an eyebrow. "Why the sudden question? Worried Adrian might send your daughter to one?"

"It's for... a friend." Her voice grew quieter.

Mr. Alistair chuckled, the red wine leaving a dark stain on his lips. "Stella, when people say 'a friend,' they usually mean themselves."

"It's really not me!" Her cheeks flushed with urgency. "She has a six-year-old son..."

"So Hugo Merovingian doesn’t plan to raise the boy anymore?"

Her pupils contracted. He even knew about Hugo.

"Ethan is doing well in the U.S. Hugo wouldn’t abandon him," she murmured in defense.

Mr. Alistair swirled his glass. "Hugo seems quite devoted to your son."

"He’s helped me a lot."

"Do you love him?"

Stella shook her head. "I’ll never love anyone else in this lifetime."

"Adrian hurt you deeply." His gaze was as fathomless as the ocean.

She lowered her lashes, silent.

"It’s alright," he said, his voice tender yet firm. "I’ll make you believe in love again."

"..."

"You don’t trust me?"

"It’s not that." She just didn’t believe she deserved happiness anymore.

"I’ll have someone compile the orphanage information." He set down his glass. "Get some rest."

A shrill phone ring shattered the morning silence.

"Hello?"

"Miss Stella Valentine? You have a local delivery."

Puzzled, she opened the door and signed for a document envelope. When she tore it open, she froze.

Inside were detailed profiles of every orphanage in Houston—environment, staff, every meticulous detail.

Mr. Alistair worked frighteningly fast.

She flipped through the envelope. The sender’s name simply read "Mr. Alistair," with only a courier station listed as the address.

Stella smiled bitterly. Of course he left no traces.

That afternoon, she found Claire Florent cleaning in the lobby.

"Miss Stella!" The woman’s eyes reddened as she gratefully accepted the documents. "Thank you so much..."

"Thank my boss, not me."

"You’re both kind people. Good karma will come your way."

Stella forced a weak smile.

"Hey! No chatting during work hours!" The manager’s sharp voice cut through.

Claire hurriedly tucked away the papers. "Miss Stella, I have to get back to work."

"Is Oliver still outside?"

"The manager won’t let him in..."

Stella glanced toward the entrance. In the cold wind, the little boy was curled into a tiny ball, like an abandoned kitten.

Her heart clenched. She strode toward the door.

"Auntie!" Oliver’s eyes lit up when he saw her.

"Come inside with me to wait for your mom." She took his freezing hand.

He shrank back timidly. "The mean man will yell..."

"I’m here. Don’t be afraid."

The moment they stepped into the lobby, the manager stormed over. "Who let you in? Out!"

Oliver hid behind Stella, trembling.

"He’s my child. Why can’t he be here?" She shielded him.

The manager sneered. "You? Do you know how expensive this hotel is? A cleaner’s monthly salary couldn’t even cover one night!"

"I’m staying here right now."

"Liar! Look at how shabby you—" He reached out to shove her.

Stella sidestepped, but his hand grazed her wound. Agony exploded through her body. Darkness swallowed her vision as she staggered, barely catching herself against the wall.