Catherine's face burned hotter than ever. She had just realized how utterly ridiculous she'd been—thinking that the pregnant girl and the phone call tonight had something to do with him being in love with someone, when in fact, it was all about his sister.
And that expression he made just now… what was that? Trying to smile but holding it back—was he silently mocking her intelligence?
But who knew he was such a doting brother? The way he spoke to his sister, that gentle, tender tone… it was infuriatingly soft and patient.
Catherine thought about Riley's brother, duke.But in Catherine's eyes, those siblings seemed to constantly be in a love-and-hate battle with each other. There was no way they'd ever speak so gently. It was all yelling, teasing, or bickering—otherwise, they couldn't communicate properly.
Back in the living room, Catherine sat awkwardly on the sofa, still pressing the ice pack to her face. In no time, he appeared carrying two plates of food. Flustered, she quickly tidied up the coffee table. The apartment she shared with Renata was just a simple two-bedroom—there was no dining table, so they always ate here.
After clearing the table, Catherine hurried back into the kitchen, grabbed a bowl, and scooped some food. Even if he had cooked the dishes, she felt compelled to do this small task herself.
"Where are the forks?" he asked as he followed her in.
"In this cabinet," she said, pointing to a small cabinet to her left.
He walked over to take them.
The kitchen was so cramped that Catherine's standing position took up most of the space. To reach the cabinet, he had to awkwardly maneuver behind her, but there was barely room to pass. So he simply stood close behind her, bending slightly to reach for the fork.
Catherine could feel his warm breath brushing over the top of her head. The way he leaned around her, it was as if he'd enveloped her entirely in his presence.
Her face betrayed her again, coloring deep red.
Catherine wasn't inexperienced with being alone with a man. She had been with Gerald before…
The name surfaced in her mind, and her chest tightened. Her movements froze mid-scoop of food.
She saw Gerald's furious face again, the way anger had stripped away his usual poise, leaving him irrational, almost hysterical.
He had shouted, red-eyed, voice trembling with fury:
"Catherine! I never thought you'd be such a reckless woman!"
"Tell me! How many men have you… been with?"
And then he had stepped closer, ripping the thin fabric of her clothing with a harsh tear.
"You've been with so many men… why not me?"
His lips, full of rage, had crushed against hers, biting at her collarbone and shoulder with near madness. And then, disgusted, he shoved her away.
Yes. He thought she was filthy—after the video of her and another man had spread like wildfire.
Catherine had nothing to explain. How could she? That she'd been framed by Lucca? Even if Gerald had believed her, she had already been with another man, hadn't she? Hadn't she already lost her innocence?
Besides, Gerald had never truly trusted her.
Otherwise, he wouldn't have spoken so harshly, calling her reckless, accusing her of sleeping with so many men.
Lucca must have approached him, spinning lies after the video leaked, painting Catherine as immoral. And Gerald had believed it.
Once he trusted Lucca's manipulation, nothing Catherine could say would ever convince him otherwise.
So she had said nothing, hastily pulling her clothes around her and leaving, humiliated and defeated.
Behind her, Gerald's voice had roared in anguish and anger:
"Catherine!"
"Come back here!"
But Catherine didn't look back.
And Gerald never caught up with her.
Catherine knew he wouldn't chase after her. No matter how he shouted for her to come back, a man's pride and ego would never allow it. He was bound to abandon her.
Such a scandal—public, undeniable—who could endure that?
She and Gerald had known each other for years. Yet, one video, one conversation from Lucca, and he had already labeled her as a reckless, frivolous woman.
Because of her ruined reputation, Gerald had called off the engagement. Catherine didn't blame him. She wouldn't let herself become a burden. After all, he was the heir of the S family. If they had married, he would have faced endless whispers, cruel stares, and biting gossip. Catherine couldn't allow that.
But being seen as that kind of woman… it had truly wounded her heart.
Hadn't he said he loved her? Hadn't he kissed her gently beneath the falling cherry blossoms and whispered about marrying her? Did he not know her at all?
Her thoughts were abruptly interrupted by a voice, low but laced with annoyance:
"What are you daydreaming about? Hurry up and serve the food!"
Catherine snapped back to reality and saw him standing beside her, forks in hand, brow furrowed, eyes piercing straight through her.
The sharpness in his gaze, the subtle frown, and the aura of authority pressed down on her all at once.
She quickly lowered her head and scooped the food, murmuring:
"Sorry…"
She didn't know how long she had been lost in thought, only that his patience must have worn thin from hunger. She hurriedly finished and carried the bowl out.
They sat facing each other on the sofa, sharing the simple meal. After the cold compress earlier, the redness and swelling on her face had subsided a bit. She had tied up the loose strands of her hair, revealing a delicate, fair face.
Her center-parted hair framed her slender features elegantly. She wasn't strikingly beautiful, but her clean, natural look was soothing to the eyes. The round-neck sweater accentuated the delicate curve of her neck, making it appear even longer and more graceful.
Bert's mind involuntarily drifted back to that night, to the same fair, delicate form she had carried then.
That night, she had been unconscious, but he had been fully aware.
Every expression, every movement, every inch of her body—he had seen it all, remembered it all.
A sudden dryness settled in his throat, as if fire had been poured into it.
"Is there a glass of water?"
His voice was a little rough, and he cleared his throat awkwardly, trying to shake those images from his mind. He had never recalled that night before—he wasn't the type to dwell on such things. Who knew what had just triggered him?
Catherine suddenly realized she hadn't even offered him any water since he entered the apartment. She quickly set her bowl aside, went to get a cup, rinsed it under the tap, and poured some water for him, apologizing politely:
"Sorry, I didn't serve you properly just now…"
She had meant it as a small courtesy, but he cut her off without any hesitation.
"When have you ever served properly? I cooked the meal myself."
Catherine froze, speechless.
He had insisted on cooking—she hadn't forced him. She shot him a sharp look, a silent protest, then lowered her head and ate quietly. There was nothing more to say; she didn't even know what to say.
Besides, after a few encounters with him, she had learned to be cautious. Opening her mouth too quickly would almost certainly result in him shutting her down. He had a way of saying things that left no room to argue.
Yet… the food he made was unexpectedly good.
Catherine couldn't believe the taste, lifting her small face in surprise to glance at him. She took several more bites, savoring the flavors carefully. Indeed… he was skilled, at least better than her own cooking.
She had assumed a man like him—so refined, so accustomed to being waited on—would never step foot in a kitchen. But apparently, she had been wrong.
"Your cooking is really good," she said without hesitation.
He glanced at her slowly as he ate, elegant even in motion, and replied simply:
"Thank you."
And just like that, the conversation died again, leaving the two of them in quiet, comfortable silence.