Whispers of Destiny: His Belated Love

The bedroom was silent for a few seconds, the air thick with the heavy scent of booze.

It finally dawned on Maxwell what Rosemary had just said, as she uttered, "Maxwell, I feel like I'm gonna puke."

"Rosemary!" He ground out her name through clenched teeth, but ultimately, got up to head to the bathroom with a sickly look on his face.

Meanwhile, Rosemary closed her eyes again, out like a light. She slept like a log, only to be woken by the harsh morning light. She stared blankly at the ceiling for a good while before realizing this wasn’t her rental pad.

Her head was splitting something fierce, the aftermath of a wicked hangover. She propped herself up slowly, her gaze sweeping the room - it was obviously a hotel setup.

She looked down, almost instinctively, at her attire. Her clothes from yesterday were gone, replaced at some point by an oversized men's shirt, clearly of an expensive make.

After three years hitched to Maxwell, she knew his scent better than anyone. Even though the room was empty except for her, she was sure the shirt was his.

After freshening up, Rosemary couldn’t find her own clothes anywhere in the room, so she decided to check outside.

She was too plastered last night to remember what went down, but given Maxwell's previous indifference and the way her body felt, he probably just changed her clothes.

Of course, she didn’t think it was out of the goodness of his heart - more likely, he just couldn’t stand her being dirty.

As Rosemary was about to step out of the bedroom, she heard Archer's voice from the living room, "Martin’s throwing a welcome-back bash at Rosewood Villa tonight, you in?"

Rosemary pulled her foot back in. She hadn’t expected company, and there she was in just Maxwell’s shirt barely reaching mid-thigh with nothing underneath.

She was about to close the door again, her hand barely touching the knob, when Maxwell's gaze snapped to her. His eyes narrowed slightly at the sight of his shirt on her. Nôvel(D)ra/ma.Org exclusive © material.

Archer, noticing the change in Maxwell's demeanor, glanced over curiously. Maxwell stepped forward, effectively blocking Archer's view, "Got it, you can head out now."

In that brief moment, Rosemary had shut the door.

Sensing something was up, Archer took the hint, grunted an acknowledgment, and left the suite. Back in the bedroom, Rosemary wrapped her nearly naked body in the duvet. Half a minute later, Maxwell walked in to see her bundled up like a cocoon on the bed. He let out a mocking scoff, "Now you decide to be modest?"

Rosemary knew what he meant, and that he was digging at the past. She shot back without missing a beat, "Everyone's got to be brainless now and then."

Back when they were newlyweds, Maxwell had never shown an interest in her. Even sharing a bed, there’d always been a mile-wide gap between them. Then he'd been caught on camera heading to Faloria; no explanation given, but Rosemary knew he was off to see Victoria.

Victoria's dance troupe was touring in Faloria at the time. Stung by the revelation, and wanting to cling to their marriage, she’d impulsively stripped in front of him upon his return.

It had been over two years, but she could still vividly remember the mix of mockery and contempt on his face as he said, "Rosemary, I have no interest in women who throw themselves at me. If

you’re so desperate for a man, I could send a few your way."

She didn't want to dwell on these humiliating memories. If she could go back to that day, she’d kick him out of bed the moment she caught a whiff of perfume on him.

"Where are my clothes?"

Maxwell looked down at her and after a brief silence, answered a different question, "Tonight, you're coming with me to Rosewood Villa."

Rosewood Villa was Martin's place, and Rosemary frowned, "I’m not going."

She hadn't been aware of Martin's return or his party, and certainly hadn't been invited. Of course, her refusal wasn't just about avoiding an old flame. She also didn't want to get tangled up with Maxwell again, especially considering his closeness to Martin.

"Attending necessary social events is part of your duty as Mrs. Templeton."

Rosemary felt the need to remind him, "Had Pearl not collapsed suddenly yesterday, we would be divorced by now."

What was the point of playing the happy couple when they were one signature away from divorce? To gross out themselves and everyone else?

The man changing clothes turned towards her, his voice cold, "Since the divorce didn’t go through, you're still Mrs. Templeton. As long as you wear that title and enjoy the perks it brings, fulfill your obligations."

The perks of being Mrs. Templeton? Rosemary couldn't help but laugh, her lips curling slightly, "The biggest perk of being Mrs. Templeton has been playing errand girl at the Templeton Group for three years."

The sarcasm in her words was unmistakable.

The wall-mounted video intercom rang, and Maxwell went to answer it.

"Mr. Templeton, this is the dress you had us pick out for your wife." Rosemary recognized the voice of the Night Club manager.

"Fitch wants to personally apologize to Mrs. Templeton. He's been waiting since last night - I didn't dare make a call without your say-so."

"Let him up."

Maxwell returned to the room, tossing the bag of clothes at Rosemary, "Without the title of Mrs. Templeton, do you think Fitch would’ve come knocking to apologize?"

His words were a clear response to her earlier jab.

Fitch arrived shortly. Rosemary had just changed and was about to leave when she saw Fitch drop to his knees in front of her with a thump.

"Mrs. Templeton, I was totally blind and didn't recognize you - I'm such a jerk; I deserve to be punished! Please put in a good word for me to Mr. Templeton. I beg him not to hold a grudge; don't let me get blacklisted from the Night Club!"

Not being able to get into the Night Club was no biggie, but if Maxwell himself gave the order, which company would dare to risk offending the Templeton Group and collaborate with him? This was practically career suicide!

Fitch said this while slapping his own face left and right, the scabbed corner of his mouth soon split open, and blood dripped down his chin onto the floor.

Last night, he couldn't accept it, and he followed him nervously, asking about Rosemary's identity, only to be scared out of his wits by the answer - Mrs. Templeton.

How could he dare to stay after that? After being dragged out of the Night Club by security, he just stood outside all night long, begging for a chance to see Rosemary and Mr. Templeton.

And now, Rosemary could hardly recognize the man in front of her with a face swollen like a pig's head and bloodshot eyes - the same Fitch who was so arrogantly self-assured last night, saying he wanted her to be his sugar baby.

The suit that was neat and smart last night was now covered in grime and blood, wrinkled as if it had been fished out of a trash heap, with a swollen, purplish bump on his forehead, oozing blood.

Rosemary turned to look at Maxwell, who was sitting on the sofa with his legs crossed, looking nonchalant, "Did you have someone do this?"

Maxwell didn't speak, but the manager by his side took the initiative to say, "Mrs. Templeton, Fitch did this to himself; it has nothing to do with Mr. Templeton."

Whether it was Maxwell or Archer, neither had said anything about how to deal with him explicitly. But people of their stature didn't need to give specific orders or get their hands dirty; a casual remark from them could send someone tumbling down into an abyss with no way out!

Fitch wasn't an idiot. He didn't need someone else to rough him up; he was extra harsh on himself, beating himself to a pulp.

Facing the man's desperate pleas, Rosemary couldn't care less to get involved in this mess, and she indifferently said, "I'm about to be Mrs. Templeton no more; begging me is useless."