Chapter 138
The man Beatrice had pinned with three flowers was indeed walking toward them. His pace wasn't hurried, yet it carried a steady, commanding presence that made the crowd instinctively part before him. Beside him walked a young man in a flashy shirt—Lucas, who had just descended from upstairs.
Lucas wore a mischievous grin, clearly enjoying the drama. He darted ahead, whistled appreciatively at Hilary and Elsie, then turned his attention to Beatrice.
"Nice taste, miss," he said with a smirk. "But I should probably warn you... you might have picked the wrong person."
Hilary immediately stepped protectively in front of Beatrice. "Wrong person? Our Bea has excellent taste! He's the most handsome man here—got a problem with that?"
Beatrice rarely visited the Stuart Manor and didn't recognize Lucas.
"No problem at all," Lucas's grin widened. He stepped aside, gesturing to the man who had now reached them. "I just wanted to let you know he doesn't work here. Those flowers were wasted."
As he spoke, he actually reached out and plucked one of the red flowers from the man's chest, twirling it between his fingers. "My cousin here is far too precious to be working for flowers as some kind of entertainment."
Cousin? Elsie froze with her glass of juice halfway to her lips, her eyes wide with shock.
Beatrice stiffly raised her head. The man stood before her and lifted his hand to remove the plain black mask. Beneath it was a face Beatrice knew all too well—deep-set eyes, straight nose, thin, pressed lips. Who else could it be but Frederick?
His face remained expressionless as he gazed at her steadily. His eyes held none of their usual dominance, nor the coldness from their earlier phone conversation—just an unfathomable, impossible-to-read calmness.
Frederick's gaze moved slowly from her shocked, bloodless face down to the three glaringly childish red flowers still pinned to his chest. Then his eyes returned to hers.
Beatrice felt heat rush to her head, her face burning like wildfire. That carefree joy and mischievous satisfaction from moments ago had transformed into unbearable embarrassment.
She had actually... in front of everyone... mistaken her own husband for a club "dancer" and boldly "tipped" him with three red flowers. This was beyond social suicide—this was public execution.
Hilary and Elsie were completely petrified. Their expressions were identical—extreme shock transitioning to horror, finally settling into a deathly "we're doomed" silence. Hilary instinctively released Beatrice's hand and took a half-step back, trying to minimize her presence.
Lucas was having the time of his life. Enjoying this blockbuster drama, his shoulders shook with barely contained laughter. Finally unable to help himself, he leaned toward Frederick and whispered so only they could hear, "Well done, Frederick. You barely leave the house, and when you do, you're mistaken for a top-tier dancer. Beatrice has quite the eye."
Frederick ignored him. His gaze remained fixed on Beatrice, watching as her cheeks and ears rapidly turned crimson with embarrassment. He was angry she would choose a dancer, yet found her current state both pitiful and adorable.
He reached out and methodically removed the red flowers from his chest. "My honor," he said, his voice low and steady.
Beatrice felt her scalp tingle with mortification. Her lips moved slightly before she managed to squeeze out a few words: "I'm sorry... I didn't know it was you."
Frederick took her wrist and led her toward the top floor. Lucas, Elsie, and Hilary exchanged bewildered glances, unsure whether to follow or stay behind. Hilary impulsively called after them, "Hey! Where are you taking our Bea?"
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Back in the Cloudcrest private room, the atmosphere was tense. Lucas finally couldn't stand it anymore. Clearing his throat, he took it upon himself to smooth things over. Turning to Beatrice with his trademark carefree smile, he said, "Beatrice, don't worry. My cousin just has one of those faces—like everyone owes him eight million dollars. He doesn't actually bite."
Frederick was watching her too. He toyed with the three red flowers in his hand, then suddenly stepped closer, his eyes taking on a chilly gleam. Beatrice's heart sank. It was just a case of mistaken identity—why was he so angry?
Frederick's gaze was cold as a bottomless winter lake. "So, if you hadn't mistaken me, who were these three flowers intended for?"
The air froze again. Beatrice was completely bewildered. "It was just a game. I wasn't being serious..."
He had only followed her out of concern, afraid to appear directly before her lest she feel constrained by his presence.
Frederick felt an inexplicable irritation. He remembered how Beatrice had stood on tiptoe to place the flower on his chest, her eyes sparkling behind her mask. So this "honor" wasn't exclusive to him. Any man who met her standards of "good taste" could have received it.
A nameless fire, mixed with intense possessiveness, ignited within him. Even he recognized these emotions were unreasonable, yet he couldn't control them.
"Answer my question," he demanded, his voice now tinged with impatience.
This commanding tone sparked a flicker of hurt and defiance in Beatrice. She had only played a simple game and pinned a few flowers—why was he acting like she'd committed some terrible crime? She pressed her lips together and stubbornly turned her face away.
Their standoff dropped the room's atmosphere to freezing. Lucas fidgeted anxiously, glancing between the defiant Beatrice and the icy mountain of a man who could destroy anyone who crossed him. All he could do was shrink back like a quail.
Just then, a clear voice filled with anger unexpectedly shattered the suffocating silence.
"Mr. Stuart, you're quite something."
Everyone froze, turning toward the source of the voice. Elsie's sharp gaze was fixed directly on Frederick, who sat on the sofa.
"When your little assistant was throwing her weight around, making your actual wife feel like an outsider, you were nowhere to be found. Now you show up playing the role of the commanding husband?" She paused, her voice cutting through the tension. "Frederick, what kind of man are you?"
Lucas's glass fell onto the carpet as he stood there, completely dumbfounded. Hilary was so frightened she covered her mouth, her eyes wide as saucers. She knew Elsie only appeared more reserved than herself but was actually the more fierce of the two. But she never imagined Elsie would dare to confront Frederick so directly. Was she... suicidal?
Beatrice's face turned deathly pale. She grabbed Elsie's arm urgently. "Elsie, what are you saying? Stop it right now!"