Simon Hawthorne glanced sideways. A few white camellias sat in the hall, blooming with pristine purity.
In stark contrast, the displeasure in Zoe Lancaster’s eyes was glaringly obvious, as if the flowers were some kind of cursed omen. Her reaction made him frown slightly. His thin, pale lips pulled into an inscrutable, subtly cold smirk. "No."
Zoe had assumed that since they were just a few flowers, he wouldn’t mind getting rid of them. She certainly hadn’t expected such a cold and categorical refusal. Even though it was a trivial matter, his rejection felt like an invisible needle pricking her heart—a lingering, subtle ache she couldn’t shake off.
Clenching her fists, she forced herself to ask calmly, "Why?"
Simon strode further inside, handing his coat to a servant. Surprisingly, he gave her an answer: "Because I like them."
"Because I like them." The words echoed in her mind.
Zoe immediately regretted it. She shouldn’t have pried, only to receive such a heart-wrenching answer. Was she satisfied now?
"Mrs. Hawthorne?" a servant called out softly.
Zoe finally snapped out of her daze. Taking a deep breath, she returned a highly unnatural smile.
The kitchen staff was busy preparing dinner. From the looks of it, they were making quite a few dishes, even though it was just the two of them eating.
Simon seemed to be in a decent mood today. He walked over to the side hall and started casually swinging a golf club, as if he had already accepted this place as his home.
Zoe, however, couldn’t let the camellia incident go. She looked around at the house’s furnishings and layout. Some of the decorative pieces gave off a warm, cozy vibe; it didn’t look like a cold, sterile model home. It was clear that genuine thought had gone into the decor. She casually waved a servant over. "Who decorated this place? Did you hire a designer?"
The servant answered truthfully, "Most of it was done by a designer, but a few small items were added in the past couple of days by..."
The servant abruptly clapped her mouth shut, her expression turning conflicted as if she had just slipped up and said something forbidden. That subtle hesitation made Zoe’s heart skip a beat. A suspicion instantly sprang to her mind.
DING-DONG.
The doorbell rang. As the door opened, Peyton Joyce and Ryan Hawthorne walked in together.
The weather had warmed up a bit today, and the evening lacked the biting spring chill of the past few days. However, as Zoe turned to see Peyton’s gentle, smiling face, she felt a sudden chill run down her spine—despite the comfortable temperature maintained by the central heating.
Peyton looked at Zoe and spoke with a rather apologetic tone. "Zoe, I know you guys just moved in today. We just wanted to come over for a little housewarming. I hope we aren’t intruding?"
Ryan, standing beside her, was the first to chime in. "Good intentions are always welcome, aren’t they?"
Simon walked out of the side hall and glanced at the two of them. "Come on in. It’s drafty by the door."
Ryan looked around the house. "Simon, you really have a great eye for this stuff. You picked this house out eight or nine years ago and insisted on it being your future marital home. Who were you preparing it for back then?"
Ryan smiled amiably, as if the question had been completely casual and unintentional.
Zoe lowered her eyelashes, minimizing her presence.
A slight crease formed between Simon’s brows, hinting at some hidden history behind the question.
It was Peyton who suddenly interrupted, her eyes darting away evasively. "That was so long ago. There’s no point in bringing it up again. Regardless of who it was meant for, Zoe is the lady of the house now."
Zoe looked at her.
Peyton offered a highly apologetic look. "Ryan didn’t mean anything by it, Zoe. Please don’t take it to heart."
Zoe almost wanted to laugh. It would have been fine if no one had tried to explain the situation. But Peyton’s insistence on bringing it up, acting as if she were terrified Zoe might misunderstand, only made things incredibly awkward.
"It’s fine. You’re absolutely right. I am the lady of the house, so what does the rest matter?" Zoe took a sip of hot tea, replying breezily. She didn’t show a hint of anger or discomfort; her demeanor was the picture of unruffled grace.
Peyton’s grip on her teacup tightened slightly. She forced a smile and said nothing more.
Zoe wasn’t sure if it was just her imagination, but she sensed Simon glancing at her, his gaze exceptionally profound.
When it was time for dinner, the meal proved to be extraordinary. The servants handling the cooking were all gold-medal chefs, so naturally, every dish was a masterpiece in color, aroma, and taste.
Peyton scanned the spread and smiled at Simon. "Thanks, Simon. You still remember I don’t eat cilantro. A few of these dishes normally call for it, but they’re all cilantro-free."
Simon took off his glasses, lowered his gaze, and placed them by his hand. "Just eat," he replied simply.
Ryan poured Peyton a glass of juice and sighed dramatically. "Peyton, I remember your preferences too! Why do you only ever appreciate Simon’s thoughtfulness? Isn’t it only natural that he remembers your likes and dislikes? After all, you two used to be so close back in the day—"
Simon’s brow furrowed, his eyes turning icy.
As if suddenly realizing he had misspoken, Ryan raised his glass in a mock penalty toast. "My apologies, I just speak my mind too much. Don’t mind me, Zoe."
Zoe frowned. It would be a lie to say she felt nothing. She had once thought Ryan was a relatively good-natured person, but now it seemed that wasn’t entirely true. He was actively defending Peyton—and Zoe could easily read between the lines.
Peyton froze for a moment before glancing at Zoe. "Zoe, he didn’t mean anything by it. He just meant that... we were all very good friends in the past."
Zoe picked up a piece of shrimp with her chopsticks, chewed it slowly, and said, "True. The past shouldn’t be dwelled upon. What matters is the present and the future. After all, who would want to spend their whole life stuck in the past, clinging to old memories?"
Zoe was by no means lacking in pride. When it came to defending her own interests, she never hesitated. She was a master at the slow burn, expertly twisting the knife with perfectly veiled remarks.
Sure enough.
Peyton’s chopsticks slipped from her hand and clattered onto the table. Her face paled, yet she maintained a fragile smile. "That’s true."
Ryan cast a worried glance at Peyton. Simon’s gaze swept across the table before finally landing on Zoe.
Zoe acted as if nothing was wrong. Completely oblivious—or pretending to be oblivious—to the awkward tension, she calmly picked up an oyster and placed it on Simon’s plate. "For the sake of Grandmother’s expectations, you should eat this. It’s very nourishing. Give it a try."
Peyton’s complexion worsened. She looked as though she were on the verge of shattering.
Zoe simply pretended not to notice.
Simon glanced at the oyster on his plate. His lips curled into an inscrutable smile. "How thoughtful."
Whether his remark held a deeper meaning or a touch of sarcasm, Zoe no longer cared. She was unhappy, so why shouldn’t she ruin everyone else’s mood? It was only fair.
After dinner, Zoe went to the first-floor restroom. With an icy expression on her stunning, doll-like face, she touched up her lip gloss. The faint peach shade made her look even more radiant and captivating.
Footsteps echoed from the doorway. She kept her eyes on the mirror, meeting the gaze of the man who had just walked in.
He leaned lazily against the doorframe, watching her. Beneath the icy exterior of his beautiful, narrow eyes, there seemed to be a flicker of genuine emotion. "Are you unhappy?"
He asked with blunt directness.
Zoe kept her back to him, leaning over the sink to wash her hands. "Am I? How could I dare?"
A warm chest suddenly pressed against her back. He wrapped his arms around her slender waist from behind, his tall frame entirely enveloping her. It felt as though she could never escape this gilded cage he had built for her. Lowering his head, he nuzzled his nose against her pale neck. His lips parted and brushed against her carotid artery, sending an ambiguous, maddeningly electric thrill through her. "Let me have a taste. Are you sour with jealousy?"