Chapter 113: What Is He Hiding From Me?
Today is my first day at Roselle Holdings.
I never imagined this moment would come. Not like this. Not with me standing here, calm and composed, buttoning a shirt that belongs to a version of myself I never thought I’d become.
I always believed I’d resist until the end—fight, argue, push back until there was nothing left to fight against.
But something shifted during my last conversation with my father.
A crack appeared in the wall I’d spent years building between us. And ever since then, a question has lodged itself in my chest and refused to leave.
How did he change so much?
And beneath that, quieter and far more dangerous—
How did I?
My phone buzzes on the bedside table, the vibration skittering across the polished wood. I walk over, pick it up, and unlock the screen.
Dad’s message waits for me.
Son... don’t be late on your first day. I’m waiting.
I type back, my thumb moving across the screen.
Leaving soon.
Another message appears almost immediately.
If Silas is free, bring him with you.
A faint smile tugs at my lips. My fingers move before I can think too much about it.
No. He said he has work to handle.
Dad’s reply comes a few seconds later.
Okay.
I turn off the screen and slip the phone into my pocket. Then I finish adjusting my cufflinks—small silver pieces catching the morning light. I take my coat from the bed, the fabric smooth and heavy in my hands, and head for the door.
Time to see my cherry tomato.
But I stop just before the door, my hand hovering over the handle. A flicker of irritation passes through me. I pat my pockets, searching.
Where are my car keys?
I turn back, walk to the bedside table, and open the drawer. My fingers find the keys quickly—but as I pull them out, something else catches my eye.
The red pendant.
It rests in the drawer like a forgotten relic, tucked beneath a hardcover book and a leather-bound notebook. Its deep crimson surface catches the morning light, glowing softly against the shadows around it.
For a moment, I simply stare.
I haven’t touched it in a long time.
I pick it up.
The weight of it settles into my palm, familiar and foreign all at once. The memory surges forward, unbidden, pulling me back to that first day—the day Silas arrived.
The way he stood in my room, quietly looking through my childhood photographs. The soft smile on his lips. The wonder in his eyes as if he were discovering pieces of a life he had always wanted to know.
The careful reverence with which he lifted the pendant from its box. The way his fingers brushed against my skin as he placed it around my neck.
Without hesitation. Without doubt.
As though he had been waiting for that moment his entire life.
I close my fingers around it, the pendant cool against my skin as I walk out of the room.
My steps are measured, deliberate, echoing across the marble like a slow heartbeat. The morning light catches the edges of the walls, softening everything, making the shadows seem gentler than they are. My shirt is unbuttoned at the top, the skin beneath exposed, the tie hanging loose around my neck—a small rebellion, a refusal to be fully tamed.
I step into the living room.
And I find him.
Silas stands by the table, his back to me, arranging white roses in a crystal vase. The morning light falls across him like a benediction, touching his hair, his shoulders, the elegant line of his spine. His movements are unhurried, each stem adjusted with deliberate care, as though the flowers are something precious entrusted to him.
The roses are still wet with dew, their fragrance drifting through the air like a whispered secret.
A smile finds my lips. Soft. Uninvited, but welcome.
I set my coat on the couch and walk toward him, my steps silent against the floor. Before he can turn, I wrap my arms around him from behind, pulling him close.
His body is warm against mine. Warmer than it should be. He stills for a moment, then relaxes into my arms.
His hands pause over the roses, fingers brushing the petals with featherlight touches.
I rest my chin on his shoulder.
"Did you pick these from the garden?"
He nods, a small smile touching his lips. I can feel it more than see it—the way his cheeks lift, the way his body settles against mine.
I press a kiss to his cheek. "They’re beautiful." A pause. "Like you."
The smile on his lips deepens.
I pull back slightly. "Now give me a goodbye kiss. I’m leaving."
My gaze drifts lower. The words die in my throat.
Needle marks.
Tiny. Faint. But unmistakable.
They scatter along the side of his neck, half-hidden beneath the collar of his shirt. The skin around them is bruised with a faint purple tint—not fresh, but not old enough to ignore.
My stomach tightens. The warmth of his body suddenly feels wrong.
What the hell is this?
Silas turns in my arms, his eyes meeting mine. That smile is still there—soft, steady, as though nothing is wrong. As if he hasn’t noticed the shift in my expression.
The pendant remains clutched in my fist.
His hands rise to my collar, careful and gentle. He buttons the upper buttons one by one, each movement slow and precise. Then he loops the tie around my neck, fastening it neatly with practiced ease. His attention never wavers, as though this simple task deserves his entire focus.
I watch him. My face remains unreadable.
His fingers rest briefly against my chest as he straightens the knot. The warmth of his skin seeps through the fabric. His cheeks are flushed—too red, too warm—and his eyes seem dimmer than usual, missing that familiar spark I’ve grown accustomed to seeing.
I reach up and press the back of my hand against his temple.
His skin is hot.
"Are you okay?"
His smile widens. He nods.
I don’t believe him.
His fingers linger on the knot of my tie. He leans in, slow and deliberate, and presses a soft kiss to my lips.
His mouth is warm. Too warm. The taste of him is familiar and unfamiliar all at once.
I pull back just enough to meet his eyes.
"You don’t look fine." My voice is quiet, almost a whisper. "Let’s go to the doctor."
He shakes his head immediately.
No.
Then he gestures toward my watch, tapping it lightly with his fingertip.
You’re getting late.
I don’t answer. I just stare at him. Silas holds my gaze for a moment. Then his fingers find my sleeve and tug gently.
Once.
Twice.
Stubborn.
Go.
The message is clear.
My jaw tightens.
For a moment, neither of us moves.
Then, slowly, I nod—barely a gesture—and turn away. I grab my coat from the couch and head for the door.
My steps are steady. Measured.
But my mind is anything but calm. The image of those scars refuses to leave me. The warmth of his skin. The exhaustion hidden behind that smile. The way he keeps trying to send me away.
My face remains blank. But the questions won’t stop.
What is he hiding from me?
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