Chapter 22
“What happened to your face?” Millard asked.
“My face…” Rosella touched her face and felt red rashes. “It’s nothing. I’ll just apply some anti–itch cream.”
Millard blurted out, “Did you eat mango?”
She was allergic to mangoes. When she was little, she had eaten some, and the red rashes had spread to her face. She scratched it hard till blood oozed out, and she buried herself under the blanket, refusing to see anyone because she thought she was going to be disfigured. Dewey got Millard there, trying to cheer her up, but she still wouldn’t come out. With the blanket covering her face, she said while sobbing, “I’m not pretty anymore. You’ll like me even less now.”
On the other side of the blanket, Millard chuckled, amused by her foolishness.
Rosella was slightly stunned; she was surprised that Millard still remembered her mango allergy. “No, I didn’t.”
“Then why…”
Just then, the staff rushed back and said apologetically, “I’m sorry, Ma’am. We don’t have any allergy medicine or anti–itch cream here…”
“What did you say?” Millard said, his tone dangerous, his aura dangerous.
Just as he was about to reprimand the staff, Rosella tugged at his sleeve. After several days of recovering, her hands looked much better, with the frostbite marks becoming less obvious. The newly grown skin
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was fair, creating a stark contrast with Millard’s black sleeve, which caught his eye.
She said softly, “It’s fine. I’ll go buy some.”
“Yeah, like you’re gonna get to a pharmacy before dawn,” he couldn’t help but blurt out harsh words. “Where’s Luigi? He’s such a decent man, isn’t he? Why didn’t you let him give you a ride?”
Hearing this, she glanced at him as if being hurt or getting used to his mockery already. Then she walked past him without saying anything. He caught up with her and grabbed her arm. “I’ll take you there.”
“No…”
“Shut up.”
Being stuffed into his car, she scratched her chin. Seeing this, he stopped her by grabbing her hand. “Stop scratching. Are you trying to get yourself disfigured?”
His hand was cold, whereas hers was warm.
The difference in their body temperature seemed to have burned her, and she pulled her hand away quickly.
“What is it? Now that you have a fiancé, I can’t touch you?” The emptiness in Millard’s palm made him feel a pang of loss, and he somehow craved her warmth. “Are you still that Rosella who used to throw herself at me every day?”
After changing into a nightgown, Lorena grabbed a bottle of wine and rang the doorbell while standing at the door of Millard’s room, but no one came to open the door.
She waited for half an hour, and finally, he was back–with someone else.
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“Millard…”
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Lorena stepped forward, wanting to loop her arm through his to tell Rosella he was hers. However, he dodged away. She smiled awkwardly, withdrew her hand, and put it in her pocket.
“What are you doing here?” Millard asked her.
Then he walked past her to open the door. She then ducked under his arm and quickly slipped into the room. It was something Rosella had used to do, and now she was adept at it.
Rosella stood in situ, not making a scene or looking jealous. “I’m going back.”
Without waiting for Millard to respond, she nodded slightly and walked away, her back seeming thin and lonely.
Millard gripped the door handle, not saying a word. He was a bit pissed at how indifferent she was when treating him, but he couldn’t make any complaints. After all, he was the one who drove her away from him.
In the room, Lorena had already taken off her nightgown, revealing a black slip dress that barely covered her butt. The form–fitting dress accentuated her plump curves, and she was certain that no man would
be able to resist.
Yet, as Millard saw her, what came to his mind was Rosella sitting in the car and applying cream under the dim yellow light.
She tilted her face, leaving one shoulder exposed in the air. Under the hazy light, her chin and cheeks were flushed crimson. Her back was thin and bony, and her skin, which should have been tender and fair, was covered with crisscrossing brown scars.
She was undoubtedly pretty, a mixture of imperfection and tenderness,
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reminding him of a painting he had bought. According to her, the woman in the painting was pretty but hollow, and she’d never be eyecandy.
But now, here she was, as frail as the woman in the painting and couldn’t stand even a gust of wind.
Still, she was way better than Lorena, who disgustingly fawned on him and tried to get his attention.
His stomach churned, and he took a deep breath to suppress the discomfort. “Get out. Don’t make me say it again.”
“Fine. I’ll get out.” Lorena gathered her hair, leaning against the bar. “Then I’ll tell everyone you’re still involved with Rosella. You two had a date in the middle of the night.”
He took off his suit, rolled up his sleeves, walked up to her slowly, and gripped her by the neck. His expression was utterly icy as he tightened his grip, making it harder and harder for her to breathe.
Then he whispered in her ear, his voice chilling to the bone, “If you wanna die, I’ll grant your wish. No need to go through the trouble.”
