Chapter 52 You Are Very Similar to Your Grandmother
Sloane's POV
I thought he would drag me into the car and confine me in a more brutal way, but he didn't.
He just stood there, staring at me with those crimson eyes, like a wild beast trapped in a cage. All the violence and madness eventually turned into defeated ashes.
"Get in the car." He finally spoke, his voice terribly hoarse, with a hint of almost pleading exhaustion.
I didn't move, just looked at him calmly.
He gave a self-mocking tug at the corner of his mouth, the light in his eyes dimming inch by inch, then he pulled open the car door and sat back in the driver's seat.
He turned off the engine, then sat there without a word, like a silent sculpture, stubbornly trapping me in place with this wordless approach.
The taxi driver stuck his head out and asked impatiently, "Miss, are you going or not?"
I opened the car door, apologized to the driver, then walked around the front of the car and got into Jared's passenger seat.
The moment the car door closed, I heard him let out an almost imperceptible sigh of relief.
The car was dead silent. He didn't start the engine. We were like being trapped in a transparent box, completely out of place with the flowing world outside the window.
After a long while, he finally spoke in a low voice, "I'll have Pierre come over to take you."
I said nothing, which meant I agreed.
Pierre arrived quickly. He must have sensed Jared's dark mood from the phone call, and nervously tried to lighten the atmosphere the whole way, making small talk.
"Mrs. Montclair, the weather is really nice today, sunny and pleasant."
"Mrs. Montclair, is the injury on your hand better? Mr. Montclair specifically asked me to find the best ointment."
I leaned back in my seat, watching the rapidly retreating street scenes outside the window, just finding it all annoying.
I responded half-heartedly, my voice cold as ice.
Pierre finally wisely shut his mouth.
When the car reached the villa entrance, I was about to get out when I noticed Jared's car had somehow followed us, parked not too far behind.
Pierre saw it too. A hint of difficulty appeared on his face, "Mrs. Montclair..."
I pushed open the car door and ignored it.
But just as I reached the villa entrance, Jared's voice came from behind me.
"Sloane."
He caught up in a few steps. Pierre tactfully left first. In the vast courtyard, only the two of us remained.
He stood in front of me, his tall figure casting a long shadow in the setting sun, his whole person shrouded in a lingering gloom.
He had taken off his suit jacket and was wearing only a white shirt. Two buttons at the collar were undone, the cuffs casually rolled up, revealing his solid forearms. His whole being showed an unprecedented sense of defeat.
"Father... did he hurt you?" he asked, his voice very soft, as if afraid of disturbing something.
I raised my eyes to meet his searching gaze. Those deep dark eyes no longer held their usual dominance and control, but cautious probing and obvious pain.
I suddenly found it somewhat funny.
Hurt? From the day I stepped into the Montclair family, which of the hurts I suffered wasn't related to Jared?
I looked at him and slowly nodded, "Yes."
One word, like a heavy hammer, struck hard at his heart.
His tall body swayed almost imperceptibly, and the last trace of color drained from his face. He seemed to want to say something in defense, opened his mouth, but in the end only let out a bitter laugh.
"Let's go have dinner." He said in a low voice, as if requesting, "Consider it... a farewell meal."
Farewell meal.
These words coming from his mouth carried a tragic sense of mutual destruction.
Fine.
I looked at his lost and dejected appearance, the frozen lake in my heart without a single ripple.
This play needed a proper ending.
"Okay." I agreed calmly.
He brought me to a highly acclaimed three-Michelin-star restaurant in the city.
The restaurant was on the top floor. Outside the huge floor-to-ceiling windows was the brilliant night view of all of New York.
The waiter respectfully pulled out chairs for us. Jared handed me the menu but didn't look at it himself, just waved his hand, signaling the waiter to leave first.
"See what you'd like to eat," he said in a low voice, but his gaze didn't fall on me, instead drifting toward the boundless night outside the window, "The foie gras and truffle risotto here are good."
I didn't respond, just lowered my eyes to flip through the beautifully printed menu.
I recognized every word on it, but together they felt strange.
His phone buzzed. He frowned at the screen but answered anyway.
"What is it?" His tone was harsh, clearly not wanting to be disturbed.
The person on the other end said something, and he lowered his voice, getting up and walking toward the outdoor terrace.
I sat alone at the large dining table, out of place with the surrounding atmosphere of elegant clothes, beautiful hair, and murmured conversations. I idly turned the wine glass in my hand, the amber liquid inside creating ripples with my movements.
Just then, a sharp yet deliberately surprised female voice cut through the quiet air.
"Oh, isn't this Sloane? What a coincidence, you're eating here too?"
I didn't need to look up to know who it was.
I put down my wine glass, raised my eyes. Keira was holding Isabelle's arm, standing not far from me.
And beside them stood a middle-aged lady with an elegant demeanor and tasteful dress.
I pretended not to see the gloating expression on Keira's face, just gave her a light glance, then my gaze fell on Isabelle beside her.
The moment Isabelle saw me, she froze. Her eyes darted away like she'd been caught red-handed.
"Keira, Mrs. Winslow." I stood up, pulling out a polite but distant smile, as a greeting.
My calmness seemed to disappoint Keira. She pursed her lips, about to say something, when Isabelle beside her suddenly pulled her hard, squeezing out a stiff smile on her face, hurriedly saying to the lady beside her, "Elia, let's go to the private room, it's too noisy here."
Her eagerness to leave was as if I were some shameful plague.
But the lady she called Elia didn't move. Her gentle and wise eyes were looking at me intently, with a hint of curiosity and inquiry.
"No rush," she spoke with a smile, her voice as mellow and pleasant as a cello, "This is Sloane, right?"
She freed herself from Isabelle's hand, slowly walked up to me, and looked me over from head to toe with the gentle gaze of an elder examining a younger person, then let out a sincere sigh of admiration.
"What a good child," she looked at me, her eyes full of kind smiles, "You really look like your grandmother, especially these eyes."