Chapter 50

It hurt—a sharp, instinctive reaction as Van awoke, gripping Winnie's arm so tightly her bones ached. She lost her balance, one knee landing between his legs, her hand braced awkwardly against his chest, barely keeping herself from falling fully into his lap. "It's you." Van's voice was low as he opened his eyes, his gaze still heavy with the fog of sleep, looking down at her from above. After a moment, he spoke in a deep, husky tone, "What were you trying to do?" With one hand caught in his grip and her posture awkwardly bent, Winnie straightened her back as best she could. "There's a draft, and I was worried you'd be cold, so I brought you a blanket." What blanket? The pale ginger cashmere throw had already slipped silently to the floor between them. Van narrowed his eyes slightly, his cold gaze fixed on her, though something darker and unspoken stirred in their depths. "Why were you gone so long?" Van asked. "I had a phone call," Winnie replied calmly, meeting his eyes. The light here was too soft, too intimate—she regretted it. How dared she meet his gaze? He was a king, a sovereign, a predator surveying his domain. And she? She was just a helpless deer, caught in the wild, uncertain of whether to flee or stay, trembling in quiet fear. The longer she looked at him, the harder her heart pounded. Her trapped hand began to tremble slightly at the fingertips, betraying her nerves. His thumb pressed firmly into the delicate pulse point on her wrist, dominant and unyielding, as if ringing the doorbell to her heart. A tingling, electric sensation shot up from her wrist, jolting her nerves. She pulled away, not forcefully but firmly enough. "Mr. Marlowe, my hand." Van's voice remained slow and deliberate, his expression calm, though the storm brewing in his eyes mirrored a dark and foreboding sky. "Your hand? What?" he asked, his face leaning closer, until their noses were almost touching. Winnie's heart trembled chaotically. "My hand…" Her voice was so faint it was nearly inaudible, but in contrast, the sound of her restrained, shallow breathing grew louder and louder. Van leaned in, his lips almost brushing hers, the air between them saturated with her fragrance. But at the last moment, he let go, releasing the tension in his grip. Winnie's slender hand slipped free from his broad palm, and her stiff, upright posture softened. Bracing herself against his shoulder, she slowly rose from his lap. Her gaze remained lowered, and the light cast long shadows from her lashes, fluttering like butterfly wings. The warmth of her scent drifted away from him. Before the chill in his arms could settle, Van's expression turned cold. Abruptly changing his mind, he caught her by the waist, pulling her firmly back into his embrace. Caught off guard, Winnie let out a muffled gasp, frowning as she lifted her face—only to meet his eyes. He wanted her. He still wanted her. In the depths of her heart, Winnie heard the sound of certainty: Like a game of ring toss, where the outcome had already been sealed with perfect inevitability. The next second, Van lowered his head, capturing her lips in a nearly feral kiss. Winnie's eyes fluttered shut in surrender. Her soft, lithe frame was enveloped in his arms, her waist firmly held as he kissed her deeply, bending her back until she nearly folded. The moon-white silk of her dress bunched messily around her legs, revealing the smooth skin of her calves. She was half-kneeling, one foot bare as her mule slipper had disappeared. The other slipper remained hooked by her toes, its embroidered bee design wobbling precariously. It finally gave way with a faint thud as it fell to the floor. From beyond the door, Yulia's voice called out, jolting Winnie back to her senses. And when she woke, she knew Van had returned to full awareness at the exact same moment. His eyes were sharp and clear, but his voice was hoarse, low with command. "Go close the door." It sounded like an order. Winnie obeyed. She walked to the door, closed it, and as she did, one side of her cardigan slipped off her shoulder, taking the strap of her dress with it. Her slender back pressed against the cold wooden surface. Her gaze, unwavering and resolute, locked onto Van. With a sharp *click*, she turned the lock. Van took a deep breath, closing his eyes as if to steady himself. He rose from the sofa. Winnie stood by the bookshelf, waiting for him, motionless. Van approached, stopping so close that their breaths mingled. Yet he didn't kiss her again. Instead, he reached out and gently pulled her cardigan back over her shoulder, adjusting it carefully. "I'm sorry," he said, his voice hoarse, as if burned. "I lost control." Winnie lowered her eyes. "It's fine. Mr. Marlowe, you've helped me so much. You deserve any repayment." Van froze for a moment. "What repayment?" Pain flickered across Winnie's heart, but she still lifted her face, curving her lips into a faint smile. "You helped me return the pocket watch to Wyatt and told him, 'Winnie belongs to me now.' He's afraid of you, so he finally let me go. Mr. Marlowe, I've always known—you have everything. I don't have much to offer in return, but it's rare for someone like you to take a liking to me." Her voice suddenly caught, but she masked it well. She paused briefly before continuing with a small, forced smile. "It's my honor." The heat and emotion that had just coursed through his veins evaporated in an instant. Van's expression darkened. He stood silently for a long time before finally speaking, "Winnie, do you even know what you're saying?" "I do," Winnie nodded, her pale face standing out starkly in the dim light. "But I can't be your mistress. Let me go, even if it's for the sake of Terry and Stephan." For her own survival, she invoked the goodwill of Terry and Stephan. This had always been an unspoken understanding between them. Outside the door, Yulia came back, calling out her name. Winnie suddenly spoke, her voice tight. "Yulia, go downstairs and help Mr. Marlowe find his signature. He's misplaced it." Yulia responded with a casual, "Okay," and obediently turned to go downstairs. Because she was backlit, Winnie couldn't see Van's face clearly, but she heard him let out a cold laugh—she couldn't tell if it was self-mockery or mocking her. "Winnie, if you want to repay me, it's actually very simple. You don't need to sell yourself." Winnie responded with a light, confused "Hmm," and then asked, "Please say." "I want to ask you to be my girfriend for a year." "I've already told you, I won't be a mistress, Mr. Marlowe. You underestimate me." Van let go of her, casually saying, "Are you saying that one time is fine, but not the next? Is there really a difference between these two? In your eyes, I'm no different from Wyatt, right?" Winnie furrowed her brows, feeling a sharp pain in her chest. "How high do you think of yourself? If you gave me a ring, I'd probably try my best to pay you back. But you know full well that the favor you've done for me, I can't repay, and I never will. Before helping me, did you even ask what I thought? You acted first, betting that I would be the kind of woman who knows her place, calmly waiting to fall into your arms, all to preserve your image as the noble, virtuous Mr. Marlowe. Is that it?" "Winnie," Van said, his expression still unreadable, but his words pressing in, "Are you saying that all your reactions to me these past few days have only been because you know your place and recognize the situation?" Winnie remained silent, gritting her teeth, turning her face away, her jawline sharp with stubbornness and pride. These words felt oddly familiar to Van. Some wanted his money, some feared his power—it was all the same. He said, each word heavy, "It's impressive that you're so sensible." The emphasis on the word "sensible" hit Winnie like a nail hammered into her soft heart.