Chapter 42 Untying the Situation

Chapter 42 Untying the Situation

That would make it impossible for her to ever hold her head up in front of him again.

Time passed second by second, each moment feeling like torture.

After what seemed like forever, there was a soft clicking sound from the door lock. Monica's heart instantly jumped to her throat. She spun around sharply, staring intently at the entrance.

Shane walked in, carrying the cold night air with him.

He took off his coat and casually tossed it on the sofa, his expression unreadable, as if he'd just been out for a walk.

Monica rushed forward, the words almost bursting out: "Did you give them money?"

Her voice carried a tension and urgency she hadn't even noticed herself.

Shane looked up at her, those unfathomably dark eyes appearing especially calm in the dim light.

He shook his head, his tone flat: "No."

Monica's anxious heart settled back into place, but what followed was even greater confusion.

He didn't give them money? Then how did he get her mother to back off?

"She won't bother you anymore." Shane walked to the bar counter and poured himself a glass of water, his voice coming through the sound of running water, seeming somewhat unreal.

This casual statement was like a thunderclap exploding in Monica's mind.

She looked at him in disbelief, thinking this was absolutely impossible.

"That can't be," she instinctively objected. "You have no idea what kind of person she is."

Shane took a sip of water, turned around, and leaned against the counter, looking at her with an unhurried gaze. "Then just wait and see."

"What exactly did you say to her?" Monica pressed, desperately wanting to know the answer.

"Nothing much." Shane clearly didn't want to discuss this topic further. He put down his glass and changed the subject, his tone even carrying a hint of teasing: "Your mom is quite interesting. Not only is she not forcing you to marry Derek anymore, she even warmly invited me—asked you to bring me home next week to attend your brother's wedding."

Monica was completely stunned.

Invite him home? Attend the wedding? And not forcing her to marry Derek anymore? Each of these things completely overturned her understanding of her mother, absurd as a dream.

She stared at Shane suspiciously, trying to find traces of lying on his calm face.

"I don't believe it," she shook her head, her voice full of doubt. "She couldn't possibly give up that easily."

"Believe it or not, up to you," Shane shrugged indifferently and took two steps closer to her, looking down at her from above. "Monica, the process doesn't matter. You just need the result."

His gaze was deep, like an ocean with no visible bottom, carrying a kind of all-knowing composure and control.

Monica stared at him blankly, beginning to reassess this man before her for the first time.

He was no longer the cool and proud young man from her memories. Five years had honed him into a sharp yet restrained blade that could, without making a sound, precisely cut through the most difficult problems in her life.

What kind of ability did he have to solve in just one hour this family crisis that had troubled her for over twenty years and drained almost all her energy?

Monica's mind was in chaos, countless questions swirling around, eventually all transforming into deep exhaustion. She didn't want to guess anymore; she just wanted to go to her room and be alone.

She turned around, and just as she took a step, Shane's deep voice came from behind her.

"Don't drink anymore from now on."

The tone was flat, emotionless, yet carried an unquestionable certainty.

Monica's steps paused. Without turning around, she just softly said "Okay" and escaped into the bedroom.

That night, Monica slept very restlessly.

What exactly had Shane said to her mother? Could the family quagmire that had troubled her for over twenty years really be solved by him with just a few words? This curiosity was like a kitten's paw, scratching at her heart, making her toss and turn.

Before dawn, she opened her eyes and got out of bed as if possessed.

In the kitchen, looking at the fridge full of ingredients, she eventually took out oatmeal and milk.

She thought, no matter what, he had solved her problem. She should at least do something.

When Shane came out of the bedroom, he smelled that familiar sweet aroma of oatmeal porridge.

He immediately saw Monica busy in the kitchen. She was concentrating on watching the pot, the morning light outlining her thin profile with an unreal sense of peace.

His steps paused, a complex and indiscernible emotion flashing in his eyes.

Monica brought breakfast to the table—oatmeal milk porridge.

Shane sat down across from her but didn't pick up his spoon.

He looked at her, his gaze calm. After a moment, he slowly spoke, his voice carrying a hint of coldness: "Don't make this anymore."

Monica's hand holding the bowl froze, her heart feeling like it had been lightly pricked by a needle tip—a fine, dense pain.

The bit of warmth and tentative gesture from her early morning efforts was easily knocked back to its original form by this one sentence.

Was he finding fault with her cooking, or... simply not wanting any more involvement with her?

She lowered her eyes and silently drank her porridge, saying nothing.

Only the slight clinking of bowls and spoons could be heard at the table. The silence was like an airtight net, firmly trapping them both.

Monica racked her brain trying to remember what happened that night when she was drunk, but her memory was like being shrouded in thick fog. Aside from a few burning and chaotic fragments, she couldn't remember anything.

Could it be that while drunk, she had said something she shouldn't have, done something she shouldn't have, making him so annoyed?

Once this thought emerged, it couldn't be suppressed.

The more she thought about it, the more guilty she felt, the more embarrassed she became.

Her chest felt tight and uncomfortable, and the bowl of warm porridge became hard to swallow.

She put down her spoon, having no appetite, and got up to clear her dishes.

"Sit down."

Shane's voice wasn't loud, but it carried a cold displeasure.

Monica's movements froze. She turned around to meet those deep dark eyes, which held an anger she couldn't understand.

"Why aren't you finishing?" he demanded.

Monica was caught off guard by this sudden questioning. She instinctively glanced at her porridge, which she'd barely touched, and answered honestly: "I... don't have much appetite."

This response was like lighting a fuse.

Shane's expression instantly darkened. He leaned back in his chair, staring at her coldly, his tone full of mockery and impatience: "No appetite?"

He seemed to laugh in anger, his voice laced with ice: "Monica, who are you putting on a show for? If you're not going to eat it, don't make it. What's the point of wasting food?"

Each word was like a knife, precisely stabbing at Monica's already sensitive and fragile nerves.

She had thanked him for solving her troubles, gotten up early to ease their relationship, only to receive in return a comment about "wasting food."