chapter502
In the grand dining hall of the Royal Estates, Fitch and the household staff had prepared a meticulously arranged dinner. The crystal chandeliers cast a brilliant light over the table, yet the atmosphere remained heavy with the silent authority that always preceded the master of the house.
Lysander descended the staircase, clad in a charcoal silk robe that shimmered with every rhythmic step. Even in leisure wear, his presence was imposing, radiating a cold, regal aura that commanded absolute silence from his subordinates.
As Fitch stepped forward to announce dinner, his voice faltered. He caught sight of a distinct mark on Lysander’s neck—a stark, crimson reminder of the volatile passion and conflict from the night before. Fearing the fallout of his observation, Fitch quickly retreated, and the rest of the staff followed suit, busying themselves with unnecessary tasks to avoid Lysander’s icy scrutiny.
Unfazed, Lysander took his seat and began his meal. The silence was broken by Thalassa, who hurried down the stairs. She was dressed in one of his black shirts, the sleeves rolled up to reveal her pale arms, a belt cinched tightly at her waist to transform the oversized garment into a makeshift dress. It was a look born of necessity, yet it held an unintentional elegance.
“Mr. Sinclair,” Thalassa began, her voice tight with suppressed anxiety. “May I leave now? My mother called with an urgent matter.”
She couldn't bring herself to mention the daycare or the children; the secret was a shield she wasn't ready to drop.
Lysander’s gaze swept over her, his expression darkening. The sight of her in his clothes—a visual mark of his influence—seemed to spark a renewed sense of possessiveness. “Who authorized you to dress in such a manner?” he asked, his voice low and dangerous.
“I had no alternative,” Thalassa retorted, her chin lifting in defiance. “The clothes I arrived in were... no longer wearable.”
The tension crackled between them. Without a word, Lysander rose and seized her wrist, leading her upstairs to a second, concealed wardrobe. He gestured for her to open it. Inside was a curated collection of high-end gowns and professional attire in every conceivable style.
“Are these for me?” she asked, breathless with surprise.
“There is no one else here,” he replied coldly.
Thalassa realized then that he had anticipated her presence here becoming a recurring reality. The thought sent a chill through her; the Royal Estates, for all its luxury, felt increasingly like a beautifully appointed fortress.