Weston took a sip from the glass Stella held to his lips. However, as she nervously held it, her hand trembled, causing some wine to spill and stain Weston’s pristine white shirt. The dark red stains didn’t make his shirt look ruined, though. In fact, they gave him a dangerous, menacing aura. Half of his figure was swallowed by darkness, while the other half was illuminated by dim light, giving him the appearance of being both an angel and a devil.
Stella immediately placed the glass down, flustered. “I’m sorry about this.”
She grabbed some napkins and moved to clean the mess, but her hand hesitated in mid-air. “Mr. Ford, perhaps you should do it yourself.”
Weston said nothing but fixed his intense gaze on her. He reached out, grasped her wrist, and guided her hand to press the napkin onto his shirt. The positioning of the stains made it a slightly awkward task.
Stella instinctively pulled her hand back, but Weston held it firmly in place. He guided her hand in wiping his shirt, stroke by stroke. His black eyes never left her, making her feel exposed and flustered. Her ears burned, and Weston seemed to take satisfaction in her reaction, a small smirk playing on his lips. “Be more careful. If you spill again, I won’t let you off so easily.”
Stella, caught off guard by his innuendo, felt confused. What exactly was he thinking?
She clenched her fist in frustration, just as Weston’s phone rang, its shrill sound cutting through the air like a siren.
Stella’s gaze lifted, and she noticed him furrow his brows in clear annoyance. He glanced at the incoming call before tossing his phone aside. Despite his swift movement, Stella caught a glimpse of the caller’s name.
The sight of the name snapped her out of her thoughts, and a sneer escaped her lips as she looked at him. “Not picking up the call?”
“Not even if it’s Guinevere calling?” Her words were heavy with provocation.
Weston’s frustration was palpable as he avoided her gaze, still choosing not to answer the call. Instead, he picked up the wine glass and took a sip. A while later, the phone stopped buzzing, likely indicating that Guinevere had given up.
Stella broke the silence, her voice cool and cutting. “It’s already so late. Mr. Ford, aren’t you planning to go home and keep your wife and child company?” Her words made the temperature in the room drop, the atmosphere turning frosty.
When she looked at Weston again, the easygoing, leisurely air around him had evaporated, leaving behind nothing but cold distance in his eyes. He released her from his grip, and she immediately stood from his lap, sitting down on the other side and straightening her clothes without sparing him a glance.
Weston noticed her contempt and disdain, and a sudden urge to smoke a cigarette overwhelmed him. He wasn’t addicted to smoking, but ever since Stella had jumped off the building, he had returned to the habit.
He lit another cigarette, flinging the lighter onto the table with a sharp clink. Without looking at her, he said, “I’m not married.”
His voice was deep and low, yet despite the noise and chaos around them, Stella heard him clearly. Her fingers froze for a moment before she forced a gentle smile. “Indeed. You’ve remarried, in fact.”
Weston’s eyes hardened, his gaze turning cold as he looked at her. “You know what I mean.”
Stella’s nails dug into her palm as she fought to keep her composure. She knew—she did—but she didn’t want to.
A question that had always gnawed at her mind resurfaced: Why was Weston so bold and unashamed before her? He had chosen Guinevere without hesitation and allowed her to walk down a path of self-destruction, yet now he persisted in pestering her. What right did he have to act as though nothing had happened?
Silence settled between them, thick and suffocating.
Stella’s exhaustion began to weigh heavily on her. “What exactly do you want?” she finally asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
Weston finished his cigarette and stubbed it out, his gaze never leaving her. Then, after a long pause, he said, his tone firm and resolute, “Come with me.”
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