Escape from Mr. Whitman (Emma and Theodore) novel Chapter 363

"No, no, not at all—I'm just an amateur," Hanley blurted out quickly. "When it comes to tea, Mr. Whitman and Mr. Jared know far more than I do. I'm just someone who gulps it down without thinking, while they really appreciate it. Especially green tea—it's particularly good with tart..."

He stopped mid-sentence, suddenly realizing something was off.

Hanley glanced nervously at Cathie.

After all, Cathie was always muttering about "tart" in his ear, and by now he'd developed a bit of a hair-trigger reaction to the phrase.

"Uh…" Hanley tried to clarify, "I mean actual tart—the dessert. Nothing else…"

Cathie let out a cold snort, and Hanley instantly fell silent.

Larson took a delicate sip from his cup, smiling as he asked, "Is there some other meaning to tart that I'm missing?"

Hanley's gaze flickered involuntarily to Theodore, whose expression had visibly darkened.

"Oh? So Mr. Whitman's the real expert, then?" Larson pressed, his smile unwavering.

Theodore could only manage a wry smile—was Larson really this clueless, or just pretending? Either way, he found himself at a loss for words.

At the table, the only one oblivious to the subtext was Ackerly.

He sighed, assuming Theodore truly didn't understand, and offered an explanation: "'Tart' was just a type of pastry. But language evolved until it described women some deem too forward. Frankly, the men using this term concern me more. If a man can't resist a 'tart', isn't that his failing? He makes mistakes but points fingers."

A round of applause broke out at the table.

It was Larson, clapping with a satisfied air.

"Just from what Mr. Marshall said, I can tell he's an upstanding man," Larson praised. "I'm sure you're equally honest and principled in your business. We definitely came to the right place today."

Larson instinctively stepped in front of Emma, shielding her. His usual half-smile had vanished, replaced by a stony expression.

Theodore clearly resented the way Larson always seemed to put himself between them. Unable to hold back, he said, "Mr. Bennett, I'm here to talk to Emma."

"Emma already told you—if there's anything you need, her lawyer will be in touch."

"She's still my wife," Theodore said, his temper flaring. "I have a right to speak to her. No one can stop me—not even you, cousin!"

"Is that so?" Larson retorted. "Mr. Whitman, you're certainly clear on your own rights. But tell me, does Emma not have the right to refuse to speak to you? And as for your duties as a husband—have you fulfilled even the most basic one? Like, say, fidelity?"

"I—" Theodore faltered, craning his neck to look past Larson. "Emma, come out here. I need to talk to you."

Emma stepped out from behind Larson—not because she especially wanted to speak to Theodore, but because she couldn't keep hiding behind her brother, letting him fight her battles. This was her marriage, her mess to deal with.