Chapter 41 Melodramatic
Elizabeth had deleted Armando's number long ago, so when the phone lit up now, it was just a string of digits.
But she knew exactly who it was. She glanced at Timothy's smile; from the way he looked, he probably knew too.
"Go ahead. I'm not the jealous type."
Elizabeth stayed silent. Timothy was overthinking. She wasn't afraid of jealousy… she was afraid of that sly, upward curl of his lips. It was unsettling. She hit "answer" and switched to speaker, her conscience clear.
"Elizabeth." Armando's voice was groggy, like he wasn't fully awake. "I've got a headache."
Her beautiful face darkened. "Then see a doctor."
She hung up.
Back when Armando came home from business dinners drunk and complaining of headaches, she'd give him medicine and massage his temples. Not anymore.
Timothy's gaze was sharp, cutting into her like a blade. He chuckled, rubbing his brow. "Elizabeth, I've got a headache."
She fell silent again. Melodramatic. She climbed over and straddled his abdomen. "Lie down. I'll massage you."
Timothy closed his eyes and enjoyed the service for a moment before gripping her waist and sitting up. He reached for a box of eye masks on the nightstand, peeled it open, read the instructions, and scanned the ingredients.
Tilting his chin, he said, "Go lie down. You've been crying… your eyes look a little scary."
Before he came, Elizabeth had already planned to use them. She lay back, unconcerned—this was simple, he wouldn't mess it up.
Timothy brushed her hair from her forehead, tore one mask open, and placed it gently over her eye. She stared at the sharp line of his jaw; when his lips weren't smiling, he looked cold. His nose was high and straight.
"Am I handsome? Staring at me like that?" Timothy smiled.
With both eyes covered, she couldn't see a thing. Timothy tossed the wrapper into the bin and sat beside her.
The room fell quiet. Elizabeth couldn't hear him moving.
A flicker of tension ran through her. She licked her lips. "Timothy?" "What?"
"What are you doing?"
"Thinking about taking you."
She shut her mouth instantly.
He laughed under his breath. "What's there to be afraid of? You enjoy it too."
Elizabeth refused to dignify that with a response. Armando's strange phone call was already fading from her mind.
Meanwhile, at Imperial Garden, Sherry stood on the staircase, her face shadowed. Armando lay back on the sofa, eyes closed.
The past weeks had drained him—late nights, endless drinks. Tom had driven him home, and half-conscious, he'd called Elizabeth. His hangover still clung to him.
The next morning, Elizabeth woke and tried to move Timothy's arm from her waist. She reached for her nightshirt—only for him to pin her back down.
It spiraled quickly out of control. Her fingers clenched the sheets. Her throat was already hoarse.
When he finally stopped, she was limp, exhausted. Timothy had once been restrained; last night, that restraint had vanished.
She didn't know how long it was before he carried her into the shower. This time she insisted on dressing—she didn't want to stay in the bedroom any longer. Buttoning her clothes one-handed was awkward.
Timothy watched for a moment, then dressed her himself in seconds, scooping her up and carrying her to the couch.
Elizabeth lay there watching TV while he washed the damp sheets.
From the living room, she overheard him on the phone with Joe, arranging for fresh linens.
She bit back embarrassment—she could have bought them herself. Then he told Joe to bring his luggage over.
Her voice rasped. "Wait… why are you bringing your luggage?"
Timothy told the person on the other end to hold on, stepped in from the balcony, and said, "Couples live together. That's just how it is."
She frowned. Who decided that?
Timothy didn't indulge her. They were together—he wasn't going to live apart. His natural dominance was showing.
Joe, still on the line, caught fragments of their conversation and rolled his eyes.
Timothy ended the call, went to the kitchen, and poured her some hot lemon water with honey for her throat.
When he brought it out, she was bending to pick up a pen from the floor. Her neck curved forward, exposing the mark he'd left there. He brushed his fingers over the spot.
Elizabeth flinched. "What are you doing?"
He didn't tell her what was there. He handed her the glass, his voice low. "Drink more hot lemon water with honey."
The doorbell rang.
Quinton stood outside with groceries for lunch. He blinked when Timothy opened the door.
Timothy smiled. "You must be Quinton, Elizabeth's family. Come in."
The two men measured each other in silence, their contest invisible but sharp.
Quinton took off his shoes, calm and deliberate. Timothy's slippers didn't quite fit.
Round one: even.
Quinton didn't want Elizabeth hurt again. "And you are…?"
"I'm Timothy Robinson, from the Robinson family."
They shook hands.
"Quinton, what's for lunch?" Elizabeth asked.
"Beef and tomato pasta." Quinton gestured for her to join him in the kitchen—he had questions.
Timothy, gracious enough not to eavesdrop, went to change for work. He had patients in the afternoon.
Quinton washed tomatoes. "Who is he?"
"My new boyfriend." Elizabeth bit into one of the tomatoes he'd rinsed.
"Your voice is hoarse. Are you sick?"
She swallowed, coughed lightly. "Probably a cold coming on. Don't worry, I've taken medicine."
"Drink more water."
"What does he do? What's his family like?"
"He's a doctor. Comes from money. He's Mabel's cousin."
She hesitated—Mabel and Timothy's relationship was complicated.
"Relax. I'm not planning to marry this time."
Timothy's tall frame appeared in the doorway. He gave her a cool glance. "I'm heading to work."
Elizabeth swallowed the tomato. "Okay. Be safe."
He didn't leave.
She tilted her head. "Something else?"
He stepped in, cupped the back of her head, and kissed her deeply. Quinton turned away, silent. Timothy released her and walked out. Elizabeth flushed. The door clicked shut. Quinton snorted. Elizabeth gave a sheepish smile.
Outside, Timothy texted her: [I need a pair of slippers that fit.]
She replied: [When Joe buys the sheets, he can pick up slippers too.]