Chapter 3

I left the chaotic battlefield at the press conference unscathed.

Behind me, Connor and Madeline were trapped in the reporters' crossfire. Their voices were hoarse as they tried desperately to defend themselves.

Those things had nothing to do with me anymore.

When I went back to Jacob's villa, it was already dark.

The vast house was ablaze with lights, but it was desolate and devoid of any human warmth.

As soon as I changed my shoes and stepped into the living room, I saw a figure on the couch.

Jacob was actually home.

He was lounging on the sofa in a luxurious black silk robe. The collar was slightly open, revealing the sharp line of his collarbone.

Under the dim golden light, his cold, sharp features softened a little, though he still carried an untouchable aloofness.

A laptop was in front of him on the coffee table. Its screen was showing a replay of my decisive victory at the press conference.

"You're back?" His eyes stayed fixed on the screen, and his voice betrayed no emotion.

"Yes," I answered.

I was not sure what else to say.

What existed between us was merely a deal.

He offered me shelter, and I provided him value.

Beyond that, there was nothing.

I was about to head upstairs and maintain a safe distance from him.

"Stop." His voice came from behind me.

I halted and turned around.

He finally lifted his head. His gaze settled on me, scrutinizing me from head to toe.

It was like the most precise scanner, leaving me nowhere to hide.

"Come here."

I hesitated for a short moment before walking over.

Before him, I felt like I was facing an insurmountable mountain. He exuded an absolute sense of oppression.

"Give me your hand," he said briefly.

I didn't understand what he meant, but I still offered him my hand.

His long fingers reached out and caught my wrist.

His fingers were cool. The touch sparked a faint shiver across my skin.

Only then did I notice a small cut on my wrist, scratched by a reporter's camera, with a trace of blood seeping out.

I hadn't noticed it earlier when pushing through the crowd.

He stared at the cut and frowned slightly.

Then, a first-aid kit landed on the coffee table.

"Take care of it yourself." With that, he let go of me. His gaze was turned back to the laptop as if nothing had happened a moment ago.

I was stunned.

Jacob was always cold, but he was making the most meticulous gestures.

In my previous life, when he held my tombstone, had he been like this-silent, yet...tender?

A part of my heart softened uncontrollably.

"Thank you," I whispered.

He didn't respond. The glow from the screen carved shadows across his profile, leaving his expression unreadable.

I opened the first aid kit, took out a cotton swab and disinfectant, and clumsily began tending to the wound.

The sting of the disinfectant made me gasp sharply.

A soft, derisive snort came from above me. "You are so stupid."

I looked up and met his faintly mocking gaze.

Then, he plucked the swab from my hand and gripped my wrist firmly with the other tightly, not allowing me to pull away.

His movements were light and even tender.

His lashes cast long shadows beneath his eyes as he bent over my hand. He was focused as if he were handling a priceless piece of art.

My heart skipped a beat.

After he finished, he let go of me and tossed the swab into the trash can.

"How do you plan to clear up the mess at the Oliver Group?" His voice became chill as usual.

"No destruction, no construction," I said, looking at him. "I want everyone who betrayed me to pay the price."

He said nothing more. Silence settled over the living room once more.

Just as I thought the conversation was over, I heard him pick up his phone and make a call.

"Richard, Make me a list of every media outlet that published negative stories about Brenna today. By tomorrow morning, I don't want their names appearing anywhere." Jacob's voice was low, but it carried an authority that brooked no refusal.

My heart trembled violently.