Whispers of Destiny: His Belated Love

Chapter 70

Rosemary burst into a snarky laugh, "Sure, just remember to pick a mastiff. At least they look tough and strong."

She paused, then added with a hint of sarcasm, "But these days, there are plenty that look the part but can't do the job, and this applies not only to humans but also to animals."

Maxwell's temples were throbbing; he pinched the bridge of his nose, clearly annoyed, "Get out."

Rosemary shrugged, "Give me my phone back."

The man looked down to see her pale hand outstretched, "Are you missing the phone, or the guy who's been calling you?" Content held by NôvelDrama.Org.

"Maxwell, would it kill you not to be so snide? You dragged me out of the cultural center without even letting me grab my coat. I don't have a dime on me, and you're kicking me out of the car. What, am I supposed to hoof it from here?"

The center was a bit far from the city center, and even farther from her apartment.

Maxwell's expression softened a bit after her explanation, and he tossed her the phone from his coat pocket, "If you just."

Bite the bullet, and you won't have to get out of the car.

But before he could finish his sentence, Rosemary pushed the car door open and left without another word. The whole car shuddered when she slammed the door shut.

As soon as Rosemary stepped out, she got drenched by droplets falling from the leaves; the late autumn rain already carried the bone-chilling cold of winter. The wet clothes stuck to her, making her shiver uncontrollably.

Maxwell didn't leave, nor did he get out of the car. His gaze was fixed on the rear-view mirror, on the drenched figure of Rosemary; with his lips in a straight line, he was clearly pissed off.

It's tough to hail a cab in the rain, especially in this cold, and Rosemary was hardly dressed for it.

He was waiting for her to come back and beg him!

This thought smoothed out the annoyance in his heart a little.

Meanwhile, Rosemary was on the phone with Hans while trying to flag down a ride. The call connected quickly, and Hans was just checking in on her since he hadn't seen her for a while and was worried something might have happened.

"I'm fine, just bumped into an acquaintance. Can you keep an eye on the exhibition for me? I'm feeling a bit under the weather and need to rest."

"Don't worry about the exhibition, we've got security on site," Hans wasn't suspicious, "The weather's been all over the place lately, and lots of people are catching colds. If you're really feeling that bad, go get a shot at the hospital, and you'll recover faster."

"Okay, thanks."

As soon as she hung up, a taxi with a passenger inside pulled up. It was lucky to share a cab in this weather, and she didn't mind it when she found out they were heading in the same direction. She hopped in without looking back at the Bentley she left behind, though she could imagine the sour look on the man's face inside.

Back home, Rosemary headed straight for the shower.

Even with the taxi's heater on, her clothes were still soaked through; the warmth did nothing.

When she used her keys to open the door, her hands were so cold that she could barely feel them. It was only when the hot water hit her that she felt alive again.

She had initially used feeling unwell as an excuse when she informed Hans, but before long, Rosemary realized she was actually running a fever!

She felt like a furnace, yet she was shivering from the cold, completely drained and with a splitting headache.

She rarely got sick, and since moving here, she'd been too busy to even have medicine at home – not even basic stuff like fever patches or cold remedies.

After her mom passed away, Larry had become like a stepdad to her, so the few times she did get sick, she just toughed it out with her own immune system.

According to her experience, she knew she'd probably break the fever after some sleep.

In a daze, she heard her phone ring. Without opening her eyes, she reached out instinctively for the phone on her nightstand, "Hello."

On the other end was Martin. Noticing something was off in her voice, he paused for a few seconds before speaking, "Rosemary?"

"Mhm." Rosemary, still semi-conscious, recognized it was Martin. She mustered some energy, "What's up?"

"Just a small favor. My grandpa acquired something from someone, and I was wondering if you knew anyone who could help verify its authenticity?"

The fever made Rosemary’s thoughts sluggish, and it took her a moment to reply, "I'll check it out for you tomorrow. Have someone bring it to the cultural center."

The charity exhibition was on for three days, and she'd be there throughout.

"Alright."

The two weren't chatty with each other, and as soon as the matter was discussed, silence fell between them.

In that silence, Rosemary's labored breathing sounded all the more loud and clear.

Martin didn't hear her speak, but the call wasn't disconnected. This was unprecedented, so he asked with concern, "Are you feeling okay?"

"Just a cold," she mumbled vaguely, seemingly about to drift into deep sleep.

"Have you taken any medicine? Where's Maxwell?"

There was so sound on the other end,

Martin waited a long time, but there was no reply. Recalling a recent chat with Archer where he mentioned unintentionally that Rosemary had moved out of Meadowlark Retreat after a falling out with Maxwell, Martin furrowed his brows in worry, "Where are you right now?"

Rosemary reported her address reflexively, a delirious act without conscious thought.

Unaware of when Martin hung up the call or even that she had told him her address, she fell into a deep, heavy sleep.

At ten o'clock at night, the Night Club was all glitz and glamour.

Archer looked expressionlessly at the man who was silently drinking on the sofa, "Did Rosemary dump you? Coming here to drown your sorrows instead of sleeping at night?"

Holding a glass of amber liquid, Maxwell glanced at Archer after a moment, with a look almost condescending, "Are you brain-dead or blind? Her, dump me? You think that's possible?"

Archer's lips curled into a cold, humorless smile, "Look at you, the picture of a man dumped and dejected. To an onlooker, it looks like you're planning to get wasted on purpose, maybe with the hope of 'accidentally' sleeping with her in a drunken haze."

Maxwell got irritated and frowned, "Why so sleazy? No wonder you've got no woman around. Seems like you've pent up so much that it's twisted your mind."

Archer was livid.

"Just leave me alone."

"Ha!" Archer stood up with a scoff, "Calling you a dog would be an insult to dogs. No wonder Rosemary left you; you lack the tongue to woo a lady and lack the decency to utter a single respectable word!."

Archer's been on a pretty regular schedule these past couple of years; he got used to hitting the hay by ten unless something special's going on. And now, not only has Maxwell dragged him out for drinks, but he also got an earful of crazy talk and was even called a freak and all.

Just as the private room door swung open, someone happened to be passing by; with all the rain marks on him, it looked like he just got caught in a downpour. He was hustling by, shaking off the droplets and cursing, "Damn, it's freezing! Probably gonna spend the whole night burning up after getting drenched like this!"

Not paying much attention to the guy, Archer was about to take a step out when suddenly, there was this rush of footsteps from behind.

Before he can even look back, he caught a glimpse of Maxwell, who'd just said he wanted to be alone, but was now zipping past him in a hurry.

Archer frowned, thinking, "What the hell's the rush now? Where's he off to in such a blaze?"