The sultry atmosphere vanished in an instant; the temperature of the room plunged as if winter had swept in.
Jason lifted his head, the desire in his dark eyes flashing to ice. His hand at her throat felt as though a slight squeeze could snap a slender, beautiful swan's neck.
For a heartbeat, the urge surged to shake her awake and demand: "Look closely—who am I?"
After a long silence, he did nothing. He rose and left.
—Bang.
The door slammed so hard the wall shook.
Kristen didn't notice. She rolled over and punched a pillow to the floor.
Half-asleep, she mumbled, "Go to hell. All scumbags should die…"
Golden sunlight spilled across the pillow through the glass. Kristen frowned and lifted a hand on reflex to block it.
Her foggy mind cleared. She jolted upright, eyes opening wide as she took in the unfamiliar room—then landed on the pink duvet covering her.
What kind of taste was this?
A knock sounded. Kristen pulled her thoughts back. "Come in."
A uniformed maid entered. "Miss Liang, Mr. Jin invites you downstairs for breakfast."
"Got it." Kristen tossed the duvet back and stood, her gaze falling on a black duffel by the wardrobe—her clothes, already hanging neatly in the closet.
She opened it and pulled out a drawer. As expected…
An assortment of lingerie, folded and arranged in perfect order—and next to them, men's black boxer briefs.
Color flared across her pale cheeks. She shut the drawer in a hurry with her own underthings in hand and headed for the bathroom.
The bathroom was spacious with separate shower and soaking areas; at the vanity, her skincare lay carefully arranged.
People were waiting downstairs. No time to explore. She stepped under the shower for a quick rinse, then reached for a towel, patted herself dry—and only then remembered she'd forgotten to bring clothes.
She didn't think twice, padded out barefoot—then froze at the door.
A man stood with his back to her at the wardrobe, wearing nothing but black briefs. Broad shoulders, narrow waist, a powerful back and long legs—every inch a model's frame.
For a second, Kristen stared, dumbstruck, forgetting to retreat.
Jason slid on his trousers, fastened the belt, took a shirt and slipped it on. As he fingered the buttons, he asked, casual, "Seen enough?"
The wardrobe door's gray glass reflected a faint silhouette.
So he'd seen her from the start.
Heat blasted into Kristen's face. She ducked her head. "Sorry." She turned to retreat to the bathroom.
"Come here." His voice was low and brooked no refusal.
Kristen pressed her lips together, glanced down at the bath towel hugging her—nothing underneath. After a few seconds of hesitation, she walked to him.
Jason's dark gaze swept over her, his throat tightening without a sound. She'd just showered; the wisps at her temple lay damp against her skin, and her face was flushed by steam. The towel hid the slope of her chest but bared the delicate line of her collarbones.
Afraid the towel might slip, she kept one hand pressed at her chest. Bare toes curled on the floor, betraying her nerves.
Thinking of last night, the restless stir in his body subsided. He took a tie from the wardrobe and held it out.
Kristen didn't take it. Her peach-blossom eyes, misty from the heat, lifted with an unconscious, disarming innocence.
"Still don't know how?" His voice carried a hint of mockery.
"This time I truly don't," she said.
Her father had passed early, and she had no brothers; naturally she'd never learned to knot a tie—and even if she had, she wouldn't dare.
One lift of her hands and the towel might fall…
Jason's expression eased a fraction. The corner of his mouth ticked up. "Never tied one for Finn?"
Finn should have been the name they avoided, but something in Jason's tone sounded like a taunt.
It needled, but she made her voice indifferent. "No. His arms are long enough."
In truth, she'd once imagined learning to tie a tie after they married—so she could knot one for Finn each morning. She'd never had the chance…
If Jason heard the undertone, he gave no sign. His lips parted. "Then you'd better learn."
Kristen took it as a double entendre—a dig that a mistress should be more professional, time to study up. The next second his cool voice sounded by her ear—
(End of Chapter)
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