Chapter 136
The person standing at the door was George.
He'd clearly just showered, loosely wrapped in a dark gray velvet bathrobe with the belt tied casually, exposing a small patch of his firm chest. His wet hair was still dripping water, sliding down the lines of his neck and disappearing into the robe's collar.
He held a towel in one hand, carelessly drying his hair, while his other hand still rested on the doorknob. Morning light streamed in through the floor-to-ceiling windows behind him, casting a hazy glow around him, though it couldn't soften the usual coldness in his expression.
I was completely stunned, frozen in the doorway.
When did he get back?
Last night?
Or early this morning?
From the looks of it, he'd just gotten up, or rather, just finished his morning shower.
Coming back early in the morning and immediately showering...
The timing, his state—it was hard not to jump to certain conclusions.
Was Sarah inside too?
If they were together last night, and I showed up this early, had I just walked in on something?
The thought made my stomach turn. I instinctively wanted to back away, to avoid this awkward and humiliating scene.
George seemed equally surprised to see me.
His hand paused briefly in drying his hair, his gaze landing on me with a trace of his usual scrutiny.
Today I was wearing a beige V-neck dress with clean lines. The fabric draped smoothly, nicely outlining my figure. The V-neck wasn't too dramatic, but when bending or looking down, it inevitably revealed some cleavage.
Just now, shocked and lost in speculation, I'd lowered my head slightly in a daze, not noticing the neckline situation.
George's gaze seemed to linger for a brief moment on my chest area.
The look wasn't particularly lustful—more like pure observation, even carrying a hint of assessment.
But I still instantly felt violated and embarrassed.
I immediately straightened up, instinctively raising my hand to adjust my neckline, my expression turning cold.
Between George and me, we'd had sex only a handful of times—literally countable on one hand.
And those few times weren't under circumstances where both parties were sober and willing.
Once was an accident before marriage, once was long after we married, when George came home completely wasted from some business function, delivered by Steven.
He was severely drunk, barely conscious, yet driven by instinct and alcohol, he'd forcefully taken me.
Those two times, though I had feelings for him and experienced brief, self-deceptive joy, mostly what I felt afterward was crushing disappointment and humiliation facing his coldness, even his slight impatience.
To him, it was probably just satisfying a physical need, or fulfilling an unavoidable marital duty.
Right now, being looked at this way, I felt like a cold snake's tongue had licked across my skin—disgusting and uncomfortable.
I didn't want to stay here another second, much less run into Sarah who might still be inside.
I tried to keep my voice calm and simply stated my purpose, "I came back to get something. I'll leave as soon as I have it."
I paused, then added with deliberate distance and sarcasm, "I won't disturb you two."
As for who "you two" were, he knew perfectly well.
George's brow furrowed almost imperceptibly.
He seemed to react to my words, but also as if he didn't fully grasp their deeper meaning, or simply didn't care.
He didn't explain, didn't step aside, just shifted slightly to the side, using his eyes to signal I could enter.
I pressed my lips together, said nothing more, and quickly walked past him, heading upstairs to the guest room to get the dress.
Footsteps sounded behind me, unhurried.
George was actually following me.
He hadn't changed clothes, still wearing that bathrobe, barefoot on the polished stairs, making soft sounds.
His pace was neither fast nor slow, yet he stayed exactly one step behind me. When I quickened, he quickened; when I slowed, he seemed to adjust his rhythm imperceptibly too—our steps oddly synchronized.
This kind of synchronization would have made my heart race before, filled me with secret joy and wild thoughts. I would have thought it was rare harmony between us, a sign that he subconsciously cared about me, noticed me.
Even something as insignificant as matching footsteps would have given my humble, yearning heart a moment of illusory satisfaction, then plunged me deeper into confusion and self-doubt. Did he have any feelings for me at all?
But now, I was clearheaded. I knew he didn't have me in his heart, never had from the beginning. He might have had moments of being moved, might have shown formal responsibility, but none of that was love—it didn't even qualify as liking.
So these synchronized footsteps no longer sparked any unrealistic fantasies. It was probably just coincidence, probably just his random walking pace, nothing more.
My mind was crystal clear, my steps more steady, no longer flustered or expectant because of his following.
Soon we reached the second floor. I pushed open the guest room door and immediately saw the deep purple velvet gift box still sitting on the cabinet.
I walked over, picked up the box, and held it in my arms, finally feeling somewhat settled.
I turned to leave, having to pass by the master bedroom door again.
The master bedroom door was slightly ajar.
My steps didn't pause, but the corner of my eye still uncontrollably glanced inside. The room was very tidy, the bed neatly made, not showing the messy traces of someone having slept there. The air seemed to carry only George's usual fragrance diffuser and the fresh scent from his recent shower—none of that sweet, cloying perfume smell that belonged to Sarah.
Sarah wasn't here?
I was somewhat surprised.
With Sarah's possessiveness that practically wanted to announce itself to the world, if George had come back last night, how could she not have followed?
Even if she didn't sleep here, she would have at least left heavy traces of her presence.
But the thought only flashed by.
Better that she wasn't here—saved me the annoyance.
I was about to look away when my steps involuntarily paused again.
Because George was standing at the entrance to the open walk-in closet, his back to me.
He clearly wasn't paying attention to my presence, casually removing his bathrobe.
The robe slipped off, revealing his lean, solid back. Broad shoulders, narrow waist, muscle lines smooth and powerful, skin a healthy honey tone, still seemingly bearing water droplets not completely dried, gleaming faintly in the morning light.
The image was strikingly impactful.
My breathing hitched for a moment. Not from attraction or shyness, but because this body instantly reminded me of that chaotic and humiliating first night.
Also in this house, in the darkness, I was pinned beneath him.
Strange waves of sensation and pain overwhelmed me. Nervous and scared, I unconsciously dug my nails deep into his back, leaving several clear bloody marks.
Afterward, I apologized frantically, my voice trembling.
He was silent in the darkness for a few seconds, then said in a gentle tone I'd never heard from him, "It's okay, if it hurts, I'll be gentler."
That was the closest thing to tenderness I'd ever heard from his mouth.
Just that one sentence.
In the six years of marriage that followed, I never heard it again.
Even during that drunken encounter, there was only heavy breathing and afterward, coldness.
Memories flooded in like a tide, carrying absurdity and pain from another lifetime.
I abruptly looked away, no longer looking at that body that had once been most intimately connected with mine.
I clutched the dress box tighter and quickened my pace, wanting to leave this place full of unpleasant memories as soon as possible.
Just as I was about to reach the stairs, George's voice came from behind.
"Grace."
He called out to me.
I stopped but didn't turn around.
He'd already changed into a clean white shirt and was buttoning his cuffs, his figure elongated by the morning light.
He looked at me, expressionless, his tone characteristically flat, like arranging a routine task, "This afternoon, pick up Jack and Milly from kindergarten. I'll be home tonight, let's have dinner together."
I was stunned.
What did he mean? Last night he had me take care of Jack, today he's ordering me to pick up the kids, and now we're having dinner together?
Since when did we need these family dinners?
Especially when we were about to divorce, when our relationship had frozen to its breaking point.
What was he trying to do?
Was this Violet's idea?
Or was he putting on another show for someone?
I instinctively wanted to refuse, "Tonight I..."
"Milly probably hasn't had dinner with me in a long time." George interrupted, his voice still steady, yet like a stone precisely thrown into the defenses I was trying to build, "She'd probably want to."
He paused, his gaze settling on my face. Those unfathomably deep eyes showed no emotion, but the implication in his words was crystal clear, "Don't you think?"
I hadn't expected George to use Milly as leverage.
He knew too well, knew clearly that Milly yearned for a father's love deep in her heart.
He actually manipulated people's hearts to such an extreme, precisely grasping my only weakness.
I stood there, my fingers gripping the dress box tightening, knuckles turning slightly white.
Anger, humiliation, and a deep sense of powerlessness surged in my chest.
Just like before, when I had to agree to make crafts for Jack to get the dress back, now, for Milly's pitiful little taste of fatherly love, I was once again in his grip.
I looked at his calm, expressionless face, those eyes devoid of any warmth, only calculation and control.
Finally, all my churning emotions could only transform into a dry, compromising response, "Just this once."