Chapter 109
Emily Windsor's POV
I summoned my last shred of strength and raised my free hand, swinging it viciously toward Lawrence's hateful face.
My wrist was effortlessly intercepted mid-air.
His free hand shot to the back of my skull, slamming me against the wall. That face—radiating raw, predatory aggression—descended slowly toward mine.
Just as his cold lips were about to claim mine, a saccharine, ill-timed voice shattered the suffocating standoff.
"Lawrence?"
Anna stood in the bedroom doorway, barefoot in a silk negligee, her face painted with an ingratiating smile. The moment she registered the scene before her, that smile froze, instantly consumed by raw jealousy.
Lawrence went still. Like a beast interrupted mid-hunt, he slowly turned his head. The desire in his eyes was eclipsed by impatient menace.
"Get out." He didn't even bother with complete sentences.
Anna flinched at the ice in his gaze but stubbornly held her ground, her venomous stare carving into me as if I were her sworn enemy.
"Still standing there? Want me to break your legs?" Lawrence's voice was arctic.
He released me and jerked his chin toward the bodyguards at the door. "Throw her out."
Two guards immediately advanced, dragging Anna from the room despite her screams and struggles.
I sagged against the wall, gasping desperately at the hard-won air, my chest heaving violently.
The moment Lawrence turned back to me, his attention locked on like a predator's, I seized my opening.
A sharp, resounding slap—every ounce of my remaining strength behind it—cracked across his face.
Time seemed to freeze.
Lawrence's head snapped to the side, an angry welt blooming across his cheek in real-time.
He clearly hadn't expected me—after everything—to still have the strength to fight back.
I stared at him, my bloodshot eyes burning with undying hatred, my voice raw but crystal clear: "Lawrence, you sick bastard—barely human—get out!"
He slowly turned his head back, tongue probing his swollen cheek. But instead of the explosive rage I'd anticipated, his eyes held something deeper—something far more chilling in its eerie calm.
"Very good." He looked at me and suddenly smiled, that smile brimming with obsessive determination. "Emily, the more you resist, the more excited I get."
He methodically straightened the collar I'd crumpled, a diseased light flickering in his eyes.
"I'll prove to you—through action—whether I measure up to that dead man or not."
With that, he gave me one final, penetrating look, then turned and walked out without a backward glance.
Only after that heavy door clicked shut did my rigid body collapse like melted wax, sliding down the wall until I crumpled to the floor.
I crawled into the bathroom and wrenched the shower handle.
Scalding water poured over me, yet I felt no warmth whatsoever.
I grabbed a loofah, soaked it in body wash, and scrubbed my skin with manic fury.
My neck. My wrists. The back of my head. Every place he'd touched—I scoured them as if trying to peel away a layer of flesh, again and again, mercilessly.
But that nauseating scent—his scent—seemed carved into my bones. No amount of washing could erase it.
My skin turned raw and crimson, tiny beads of blood seeping through, but I barely registered the pain.
Finally, I collapsed onto the cold tiles, letting the hot water pummel my numb body.
I buried my face in my knees as the breakdown I'd suppressed all night finally emerged—fragmented sobs swallowed by the rush of water.
The next morning, I woke to rhythmic knocking.
"Miss Windsor, Mr. Lowe requests your presence for breakfast." A servant's respectful voice filtered through the door.
Like a walking corpse, I changed into clean clothes and descended the stairs, my face an emotionless mask.
Lawrence sat at the dining table in a casual light gray outfit, his injured hand wrapped in pristine gauze. He'd traded last night's menace for something approaching domestic warmth.
That warmth was more repulsive than any violence.
Before him sat a plate of eggs Benedict, beautifully presented.
He looked up as I entered, offering what he probably thought was a tender smile.
"Come here," he gestured with his good hand. "Try it. I made it myself."
I froze in place, my stomach churning violently.
The elderly housekeeper, bustled over carrying milk, her face wreathed in smiles. "Miss Windsor, you're so fortunate! In all my years with the Lowe family, I've never seen Mr. Lowe cook for anyone. And I've certainly never seen him care so deeply for a woman."
I looked at her obsequious, envious face, then at Lawrence's self-satisfied smile—and my stomach revolted. I clamped a hand over my mouth, retching uncontrollably.
That beautifully plated eggs Benedict suddenly looked like it was constructed from blood and human flesh, reeking of a sickening stench.
I couldn't stomach anything. I just wanted to vomit.
Lawrence's smile crystallized instantly, replaced by dark, brooding frost.
He shot to his feet, closing the distance between us in a few strides, the false tenderness gone from his eyes—only the irritation of being defied remained, alongside raw aggression.
"What game are you playing now?"
I couldn't answer, could only cling to the table's edge, retching until my throat was raw.
He stared at me for several seconds before finally, impatiently, summoning the family physician. After a brief examination, the doctor bowed respectfully. "Mr. Lowe, Miss Windsor is physically unharmed. The nausea is stress-induced—her extreme emotional distress combined with days of inadequate nutrition has caused gastric dysfunction."
"Emotional distress?" Lawrence repeated the words slowly, as if savoring an amusing phrase.
After the physician left, the menace in his eyes miraculously receded. He personally ladled a bowl of plain congee, set it before me, and even lifted a spoon as if to feed me.
"Be good. Eat a little." His voice dropped to something gentle, like coaxing a difficult child. "If you starve yourself, I'll worry."
Worry? I looked at his disgustingly false face and wanted to tear it apart.
"Lawrence," I lifted my head, forcing words through my cracked lips with every ounce of strength I possessed. "Get out of my sight. You make me sick."
The spoon froze mid-air. The restaurant's atmosphere solidified in that instant. The fragile warmth in his eyes—shattered by my words—gave way to a barely restrained volcanic fury. I could actually hear his knuckles cracking from the force of his grip.