“I know you’re uncomfortable. Just say it,” Weston’s voice was soft, his forehead pressing against hers in a rare moment of intimacy.
Stella tilted her head, her expression unreadable. “I’m not bothered at all. In fact, I’m overjoyed. If I were the old me, I would’ve been thrilled to see you being so considerate.”
Her words, though calm, carried an undertone of bitterness. Weston had had someone else prepare the extravagant meal, but it didn’t matter how many people bowed to his command. The fact remained that no matter how much effort he put in, it would never be enough to undo the hurt he had caused.
How could a man like him—one who wielded power so effortlessly—understand the agony of being trampled upon, neglected, and hurt? How could he ever grasp the pain of loving someone who only used that love as a tool to control?
No, he would never understand it. The grand gestures he thought would win her back were mere distractions, attempts to ease his guilt. He thought he could turn back time, restore the old Stella who had adored him completely. But the truth was, that woman no longer existed. She was gone, and in her place was someone else—Ella. Wasn’t this what Weston had wanted?
Stella saw the flicker of pain in his eyes. Without thinking, she reached out, her fingers brushing against his face. For a moment, an unsettling thought crossed her mind—she wanted to scratch his face, leave a mark on him, something that mirrored the scars he had left on her heart. But she resisted, letting her fingers trail across his skin, offering only a cold stare.
“I’m full. Can I leave?” she asked flatly, her voice devoid of emotion.
Weston’s gaze softened as he noticed the cold sweat on her forehead, her hair clinging to her skin. The sight made her complexion appear even paler, the contrast between her dark hair and fair skin striking.
He gently reached up, brushing the damp strands of hair from her face, then placed a soft kiss on her eyelids. “It’s still early. Let’s take a shower first.”
Stella didn’t resist. She nodded quietly, allowing him to guide her to the bathroom.
Inside the bathroom, she felt like a passive doll—sitting silently in the tub, following his every command without protest.
“Lift your arms.”
“Turn around.”
Throughout the process, Weston never once crossed the line. There was no hidden agenda behind his actions, no malice. As he carefully cleaned every part of her, he seemed almost reverential, as though he were cherishing the very act of caring for her.
Stella’s body, covered in foam, seemed pure in his eyes, untainted by the world, untouched even by him. He felt an overwhelming sense of protectiveness, as if nothing—least of all himself—could ever defile her.
When he carried her out of the bathroom, the night had grown late, but it wasn’t quite time for sleep. Weston, still holding her in his arms, stepped into the living room. He noticed that the table had been cleared of the remaining food.
Stella’s gaze lingered on the empty table for a moment, then she sighed softly. “What a waste. So much food left uneaten.”
Weston’s voice was low and quiet as he answered, “It’s not a waste if you don’t like it.”
He lowered his head, pressing a kiss to her hair before carefully placing her on the sofa. Then he walked to find the hairdryer, the noise of the blower soon filling the room.
As he approached with the dryer, Stella instinctively flinched, her body tensing. But Weston didn’t let her go. He gently pulled her hair back and continued drying it, his movements deliberate but not without force.
Stella stiffened, unable to shake the sense of unease. She had never fully trusted him, not like this. Her nervousness didn’t escape his notice.
Seeing her discomfort, Weston softened his touch, gently massaging her scalp. “Calm down,” he murmured, his voice low.
Though his actions were rough, his fingers were delicate, threading through her long hair with care. But despite his attempts at tenderness, Stella winced occasionally as his fingers tugged too harshly.
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