The morning sun spilled into the room, soft and unforgiving. When Amanda blinked her eyes open, she found herself staring directly into a pair of gentle eyes that seemed to have been watching her for hours.
She froze. The searing, fragmented memories of the night before rushed back—the heat, the whispers, and the confession. "Was I dreaming when he said those words? Or were they real?"
Her heart hammered against her ribs. Trying to maintain her composure, she attempted to slide out from under Quentin's arm. "I... I'm going to wash my face," she stammered.
But Quentin had no intention of letting his "prey" escape so easily. In one fluid motion, he flipped over, pinning her to the mattress. He looked down at her with a satisfied, almost boyish smirk, clearly enjoying the way she looked at him as if he were a ghost.
"Do you always plan on running away after you've had your fill?" he asked, his voice low and vibrating with a morning huskiness.
Amanda rolled her eyes, her face heating up. "Uncle, let go of me!"
She struggled, but pushing against him was like trying to move a mountain. Quentin laughed softly, leaning down to press a lingering kiss to her lips. When he pulled back, he whispered shamelessly against her ear, "I'm hard, Mandy. How am I supposed to let you go?"
Amanda's mouth fell open. Where did the serious, cold Director Quentin go? Who is this scoundrel? "If you're... like that, go solve it yourself!" she hissed, her face burning. "Why are you bothering me?"
Quentin raised an eyebrow, his expression mock-serious. "And why are you forcing me to perform my marital duties all by myself? That seems very unfair, don't you think?"
Unable to win the battle of words, Amanda took advantage of a momentary slackening of his grip to bolt for the bathroom, slamming the door behind her without a word.
Later, after freshening up and trying to settle her chaotic thoughts, Amanda wandered into the garden. She found Butler Wayne carefully tending to the flower beds.
"Actually, this villa was the dowry left by the old lady," the butler remarked conversationally.
Amanda nodded. She knew this; Javier had mentioned it in her previous life, claiming it as a trophy of his inheritance. "Yes, I know."
She reached out, plucking a stray rose branch and bringing it to her nose. The scent was intoxicating.
"But did you know," Wayne continued, his voice heavy with meaning, "that the old lady specifically left this house for the Young Master to use as his wedding home?"
Amanda's hand froze. She turned to the butler, her eyes narrowing. "What are you trying to tell me, Butler Wayne?"
The old man sighed, knowing he was overstepping, but his loyalty to Quentin pushed him forward. "This villa... Master Quentin has spent years renovating it himself. Every detail was planned for his future bride." He gestured to the sprawling sea of red. "And this rose garden? He planted it himself. Branch by branch, thorn by thorn. He spent years cultivating these flowers. Please... even if you are angry, could you find it in your heart to respect his effort and not have them uprooted?"
The words hit Amanda like a physical blow. Her heart throbbed with a sudden, sharp panic. He grew them himself? Memory after memory began to shift and re-align. In her previous life, Javier had claimed he planted the garden for her. But Javier didn't even remember her seafood allergy. How could a man who didn't care if she lived or died spend years tending to roses?
Wait... seafood.
She remembered the dinner with the two families. The table had been covered in seafood—dishes she couldn't touch. But then, quietly, the menu had changed. Simple, frugal, non-seafood dishes had appeared in front of her. She had assumed it was a coincidence, but now she remembered: that was the moment Quentin had put the fish in her bowl and subtly signaled the staff.
The realization was a tidal wave. She had been so blinded by hatred and her "knowledge" of the future that she had missed the man standing right in front of her.
Her grip on the rose branch tightened. She didn't even notice the thorns digging into her palm until the crimson blood began to drip onto the white gravel.
"Miss! Your hand!" Butler Wayne cried out, hurrying over with a medical kit.
Amanda stared at her bleeding hand, but she felt no pain—only a desperate, driving need. As the butler bandaged her wound, she spoke with a quiet, shaky intensity. "Butler Wayne, prepare the car. I need to go to the Harris Group. Now."
She didn't wait for a reply. She strode toward the driveway, her mind a whirlwind. But after a few steps, she stopped and looked back at the blooming garden.
"The roses," she said, her eyelashes trembling. "Keep them. Don't touch a single one."
Standing in the sleek, intimidating lobby of the Harris Group, Amanda felt a sudden, sharp pang of regret.
In her haste to see him, she realized she didn't even have his personal phone number. She was the wife of the General Director, and she was standing at the reception desk like a stranger.
Under her mask and hat, she offered the receptionist a shy, slightly embarrassed smile. "Do you mind if I wait over there?" she asked, pointing toward the lounge.
The receptionist, used to beautiful women waiting for her boss, offered a polite, professional smile. "Of course, ma'am. Please, make yourself comfortable."
She even brought Amanda a cup of warm water. Amanda thanked her and sat down, her eyes fixed on the elevator bank. She would wait. She didn't care how long it took; she just needed to see the man who had been planting roses for her in the dark for years.