No Sex for Six Years Because of Her? I'm Done novel Chapter 630

Chapter 630 Don’t Even Think About It

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Mason let out a long, satisfied breath and went completely slack against Amelia, his full weight settling into her shoulder.

The car moved smoothly through the Premond streets. Inside, the only sound was their breathing.

Amelia looked down at him and thought, quietly, that the city didn’t feel quite as cold as she’d expected.

Back at the hotel, the entryway lights flared on as soon as they stepped inside, cutting through the soft blur left by the car ride. Mason seemed more alert, but he didn’t let go of her.

The door had barely clicked shut before he kissed her.

There was something in it that the wine had sharpened, a kind of insistence that made it hard to think. His hands found the hem of her dress and slid upward along her leg.

“Mason.” Her thoughts were scattered, but not entirely gone.

His mouth moved to her neck, her collarbone. “Amelia,” he murmured, and it was clear he had ideas she wasn’t going to entertain.

“No!” Amelia snapped back to her senses, both hands pressing firmly against his chest, stopping him before he could go any further.

“You’ve been drinking, and your body still hasn’t adjusted. Go shower. Then sleep. That’s it.” She kept her expression serious, which took some effort. “Until you’ve slept off the jet lag properly, nothing else is happening.”

He stayed where he was, face buried against her neck, and went still.

After a long moment, his voice came out muffled and vaguely aggrieved. “You’re mean.”

But he listened. He straightened up, a little unsteady, and made his way to the bathroom without further argument.

Amelia stood in the entryway and pressed her fingers to her cheek. Still hot. Her lips felt tender. Her heart was going faster than she wanted to admit. She listened to the shower run.

When he came out, with a towel around his waist, he went straight to the bed and dropped. Within minutes his breathing had slowed into something deep and even. Whatever the evening had demanded of him, it had taken everything he had.

The room settled into silence.

Amelia, on the other hand, couldn’t have slept if she’d tried. Her mind was completely awake, turning over everything Howard had said at dinner. She took her laptop from her bag, found the small desk in the suite’s study, and sat down.

Working from the details Howard had given her, Amelia started searching online for the mysterious late wife of the Eldorian businessman.

But no matter what she typed “Porteria evening gown designer” or “20 years ago“-the results came back thin and inconclusive, nothing pointing anywhere definite.

Just as she was about to give up, a fragment buried deep beneath the flood of results caught her eye, a stray

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Chapter 630 Don’t Even Think About it

piece from the archive site of an old Eropalean fashion magazine.

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It was a Farolian article, dated to just over 20 years ago. It described how, for a brief period, a remarkably gifted Amitian designer had quietly made her presence felt in Premond’s fashion circles.

She had never appeared publicly, keeping herself entirely out of the spotlight, yet her talent alone had been enough to bring Cindaran–style fashion to the attention of Eropal’s most elite circles. Her embroidered gowns and refined evening wear had been nearly impossible to come by among the society women of the day.

Then the article turned. Right at the end, almost as an afterthought, it mentioned that at the height of her recognition, the designer had been hit with a serious plagiarism scandal, and had vanished from the scene entirely.

Amelia’s pulse jumped.

Could this be her? The timeline fits. The style fits. And that plagiarism scandal, could that too have been tied to the grief of losing her daughter, the slow unraveling that followed?

Unverified as they were, these fragments opened up a new line of thinking.

A designer with such a distinct aesthetic, whose work had once been coveted by Eropalean nobility, her pieces couldn’t have simply vanished in a fire the way Howard described. People who were drawn to that kind of rare, singular artistry tended to be devoted collectors. Someone out there might still have her work, preserved and intact.

The thought lit something up in Amelia’s eyes. One real piece. Just one. That would tell her more than a thousand vague secondhand descriptions ever could. But where did you even begin looking for collectors like that, the kind who kept their treasures quietly and close?

Her gaze drifted, almost without thinking, toward the bedroom.