Chapter179 Miranda, Get a Grip
Back in her room, Miranda shut the door behind her.
That suggestive moan from downstairs was like a dull knife, sawing back and forth at her heart.
Feeling like she had been burned, she rushed straight into the bathroom.
She cranked the faucet open. A cold stream of water gushed out.
Miranda cupped the freezing water in her hands and splashed it onto her face repeatedly.
The biting chill seeped into her skin and jolted her nerves, but it couldn't suppress the stinging heat in her eyes.
Once, twice, three times.
She didn't stop until her cheeks were rubbed raw and red. Only then did the suffocating feeling begin to fade.
Leaning her hands on the sink, she looked at herself in the mirror.
Water droplets slid down her pale cheeks. Messy strands of hair stuck to her forehead. Her eyes were a mess of bloodshot red.
Looking at the woman in the glass, a self-mocking smile touched her lips.
She had known all along, hadn't she?
They belonged to two different worlds.
"Phew..."
Miranda took a deep breath and closed her eyes. When she opened them again, the vulnerability was gone, forced back down deep inside.
She stared at her reflection and whispered to herself, one word at a time.
"Miranda, get a grip."
Downstairs, in the guest room.
The air was thick with a tense, awkward energy.
A puddle of water sat on the floor next to shards of broken glass.
The cashmere blanket over Clifton’s legs was soaked. The dark wet patch looked jarring against the light gray fabric.
"I’m so sorry, Clifton! Truly!"
Isabella stood there looking panicked, her hand still frozen in the air as if holding a glass. "I just wanted to hand you some water. I didn't mean for it to slip. Did I hurt you?"
As she spoke, she quickly knelt down.
"The water is so cold. You must be freezing. We need to dry this blanket right away, or the cold will be bad for your legs."
She grabbed a soft, clean towel from the nightstand. Leaning forward, her well-manicured hands reached toward Clifton’s thigh.
"Let me dry you off."
Her voice was soft and gentle.
Just a second before her fingertips touched the fabric over his skin.
"Don't."
The man’s voice rang out, cold as ice.
Clifton’s brow furrowed. A flash of impatience and disgust flickered in his eyes.
He reacted instantly. Holding his documents in one hand, he jerked the joystick on his wheelchair with the other.
The wheelchair spun back and away, easily dodging Isabella’s touch.
Isabella’s hand froze in mid-air. Her knuckles turned white as she gripped the towel.
"I’ll handle it," Clifton said coldly. "It’s late. Go to sleep."
He didn't give her a chance to speak again. He turned his wheelchair around and left the room without looking back.
Only after the door clicked shut and his rigid silhouette disappeared did Isabella’s panic vanish.
She slowly stood up. She looked at her empty hand, then at the door. A slow, calculating smile spread across her face.
"Heh."
She tossed the towel onto the bed. Her eyes gleamed with malice.
She had excellent hearing. While in the living room earlier, she had clearly heard the car engine cut out.
Only Miranda would be coming home at this hour.
That was why she had lured Clifton into her room. When she heard Miranda heading upstairs, she had intentionally dropped the glass and let out that suggestive cry.
She had even left the door cracked open on purpose.
Miranda definitely heard it.
The sound of those hurried footsteps retreating upstairs was proof enough.
"Miranda, you must feel terrible right now, don't you?"
Isabella whispered to herself, her fingers idly playing with her hemline.
So what if Clifton was cold to her now?
As long as she planted the seeds of doubt in Miranda’s heart, the rift between them would grow.
Once trust collapsed, their relationship wouldn't be far behind.
The position of Mrs. Prescott would be hers eventually.
In the third-floor master bedroom.
Clifton pushed the door open and locked it behind him.
The room was silent. He frowned at his wet pants and tossed the damp blanket onto the sofa.
In here, he didn't need to pretend.
He stood up from the chair and walked toward the walk-in closet with steady steps. As he walked, he unbuttoned his shirt with one hand.
Since his clothes were wet, he needed a change.
He reached the closet door and reached for his belt.
Click.
The bathroom door opened, and a cloud of warm steam drifted out.
Clifton paused and looked up.
Miranda walked out in her pajamas. Her hair was damp and dripping. she was rubbing it with a towel.
Their eyes met.
Clifton was shirtless, revealing a powerful, well-defined chest. His abs disappeared beneath his half-undone belt. He looked every bit the dominant male.
In the past, Miranda would have blushed and turned away.
But now.
She gave him a brief, flat look. Her eyes stayed on his body for less than half a second, as if she were looking at a piece of furniture.
"When did you get back?" Clifton asked, his voice deep and melodic.
Miranda didn't stop. She walked right past him toward the bed. "A little while ago."
Clifton watched her walk away.
Something felt wrong.
He looked down at his bare chest. Was he out of shape? Had he been too busy to work out lately? Was he no longer attractive?
He turned around. She had already crawled under the covers, her back turned to him.
"Miranda," he called out.
"I'm tired. I’m going to sleep."
Her voice came muffled from under the blanket. She clearly didn't want to talk.
Clifton stood there for a few seconds, staring at the lump in the bed. Finally, he said nothing and went into the closet to change into clean loungewear.
When he came out, he checked the time and sat down at his desk to open his laptop.
The documents Isabella brought did have some critical data that needed checking. It concerned a major strategic partnership for the second half of the year. Time was tight.
He didn't bother Miranda. Instead, he took his laptop and files to the armchair by the window.
He only turned on a dim floor lamp.
The sound of typing was crisp in the quiet night, strangely rhythmic.
Hours passed.
By the time Clifton finished the last set of data and closed his laptop, it was 2:00 AM.
He rubbed the bridge of his nose and walked to the bed.
Miranda was fast asleep.
She was curled up under the duvet, leaving only her small face visible.
The warm glow of the nightlight softened her features.
Those eyes, usually so cold and stubborn, were shut tight. Her thick lashes cast small shadows on her cheeks, fluttering slightly with her breath.
Clifton looked down at her. His gaze traced every inch of her face. His throat tightened.
He leaned down and gently brushed his fingers against her cool cheek.
"Goodnight..."
He whispered into the silence.
Then, he pulled back a corner of the blanket and slid in beside her.
He reached out and pulled her into his arms, assertive yet gentle.
Sensing the warmth, Miranda subconsciously snuggled into his chest in her sleep. She found a comfortable spot and drifted back into a deep slumber.