Chapter 5 Taking Off His Clothes
The knife-edge in Terrence's presence dulled, thickening into a cold, suffocating weight.
Without warning, his hand clamped around her wrist, the pressure biting into her skin.
"Bianca, do you even know what you're saying?"
A faint red mark bloomed where his fingers had pressed into her. She lifted her gaze, her voice careful yet edged with implication. "I can't help but wonder… could your prescription be hiding a dangerous interaction no one's caught?"
His eyes narrowed, his tone dropping to a low, glacial register. "What exactly do you know?" Every word carried steel, sharpened with open distrust.
Her statement struck him like a stone hurled into deep water, sending ripples through a mind that was rarely disturbed. If she was telling the truth, then what had been placed into his mouth day after day—was it truly medicine meant to save him, or poison meant to end him?
Who would dare reach so far into his life?
And if she was lying…
His gaze, dark and without a trace of light, locked on her before he released her wrist. "Get out."
This time, Bianca didn't challenge him. "Then I'll go prepare a change of clothes for you."
She stepped into the master bedroom. The space was draped entirely in black—walls, curtains, even the bedding. No wonder Terrence always looked like a man carved from stone. Was it a trait of every man in power to surround himself with darkness as if it could hide the truth?
The air felt dead.
Shaking her head, Bianca crossed to the wardrobe and found a suit already laid out. It was a pale gray, almost washed-out, but the fabric's quality was impeccable.
Odd, though—the color didn't suit Terrence at all. Robert had been with him for years. How could he not know his preferences? Was it deliberate?
She opened the wardrobe wider, selecting pieces herself, pairing them into a set Terrence could wear to work tomorrow.
So absorbed was she in the task that she didn't notice the shadow at the door.
Terrence leaned against the frame, eyes fixed on her as she arranged his clothes.
"What are you doing? When did I give you permission to come in here?"
She turned at the sound, stepping quickly toward him.
"Don't be angry. We live together, and we're engaged. Feelings have to be nurtured, don't they? I just wanted to do something a wife would do—like choosing your outfit for tomorrow. Don't worry, I haven't touched anything else in your room. You can check if you want."
Her small hands moved nervously in front of her chest, like a startled rabbit unsure whether to flee or stay.
Terrence's gaze dropped to the clothes she had chosen.
"I'm going to shower. Leave."
"But your eyes… why don't I help you? It's fine."
Before he could answer, Bianca took his hand and pulled him toward the bathroom.
Her pulse hammered in her ears. Even with this second chance at life, she had never been this close to a man—certainly not to Terrence.
He neither moved nor spoke, watching in silence, as if curious to see where she would take this.
He was a head taller than her. Bianca rose onto her toes, fingers working at the buttons of his shirt.
The fabric slipped from his shoulders, revealing the sculpted planes of muscle beneath.
Her fingertips skimmed across his chest by accident, a jolt of heat shooting through her skin. She dropped her gaze, cheeks burning.
In her previous life, she must have been blind—not to have seen the man standing before her now. His chest, his abs… every inch of him put Samuel to shame.
"How long are you planning to look? Why not just touch?"
Terrence's voice carried a trace of mockery, though the distance in his tone remained.
She jerked her hands back. "No need. Once we're married, I'll have plenty of chances. You can do the rest yourself. It's not… convenient for me."
She fled, flustered, and behind her, Terrence's mouth curved in the faintest smile.
Leaving the master bedroom, Bianca had barely regained her composure when she caught the edge of whispered gossip.
Several servants were watching her, their voices laced with venom.
"Some people are born lucky—born into high society. But aren't socialites supposed to have better manners? Who throws themselves at a man like that?"
"Exactly. I heard she's tangled up with other men too. I don't know what Mr. Anderson sees in her. All she's good at is seducing."
Bianca's lips curved into a smile that held no warmth. She strode toward them, her voice like a blade. "Since the day I stepped into this house, I've been its lady. If you want to keep your jobs, you'd better learn to hold your tongues. I'm not unreasonable."
She paused just long enough for the weight of her words to settle. "This time, take it as a warning. Next time, anyone with a filthy mouth will be shown the door."
Her tone softened—just slightly. "Do your work well, and I'll put in a good word with Mr. Anderson. You'll find your year-end bonus worth smiling about."
The servants knew they couldn't match her standing. None of them dared challenge her to her face.
Later, behind closed doors, they sought out Robert to air their grievances.
"Mr. Green, Ms. Rodriguez is being too much. We talk a little, and even Mr. Anderson doesn't mind. Why does she get to humiliate us?"
"Yes, last time she even talked back to you. You've been with Mr. Anderson for years. She's new—shouldn't she be learning from you how to please him? Instead, she's turning things around."
Robert's own pride smarted. "I've heard you. I'll find a time to bring it up."
In the days that followed, Bianca made a point of picking at the servants' work—especially their cleaning—until they understood that crossing her had consequences.
Resentment built until it boiled over.
In the study, Robert and the servants aired their grievances to Terrence.
"Mr. Anderson, you don't know how Ms. Rodriguez treats us when you're not here. Whatever we do, she finds fault. I've worked here for years, and you've never spoken to me like that. If she doesn't like us, she should just fire us."
"Yes, she made me wipe a single pane of glass five times. I may not be a socialite, but my hands are raw."
Terrence's expression was unreadable. His fingers tapped a slow rhythm on the desk. "Bring her here."
A servant carried the message to Bianca. "Ms. Rodriguez, Mr. Anderson wants to see you."
Her brows lifted. Terrence, asking for her?
She entered the study to find the room thick with tension.
"What is it?"
Robert spoke first. "Ms. Rodriguez, if you have a problem with the servants, you can say so directly. There's no need to make trouble over small things."
He added, "Since we're here in front of Mr. Anderson, why don't you tell us now?"
The servants' eyes burned with resentment. Robert looked almost satisfied.
Terrence's stance remained unreadable.
Bianca's fists curled, palms damp with sweat.
What would he think?