She Was Never Just a Pretty Face novel Chapter 42

Jolie left.

Above them, the crystal chandelier blazed with light. The mirror reflected the two of them tangled together, the image so overwhelmingly intimate that Hilda felt a sharp sting of humiliation. She squeezed her eyes shut, her voice breaking into fractured pieces. "Luther, let me go."

"Are you sure about that?"

His voice was equally dark and hoarse.

If Jolie hadn't interrupted, he wouldn't have been able to stop himself from taking her right then and there.

…

Out in the living room, Jolie's face was deathly pale.

She had never imagined Luther was like this.

He always seemed so stoic and disciplined.

Behind closed doors, he was a man driven by ravenous, consuming needs.

He had never shown that kind of primal urgency with her.

Jolie looked down at the painting she had brought with her—'First Love' by The Bibliophile. A small sliver of comfort slid into her chest. She was undeniably superior. She outshone Hilda in every way. Even if Luther was temporarily blinded by lust for that bitch's body, in the grand scheme of things, he would choose her. Why else would he have bought The Bibliophile's artwork today just to support her?

She couldn't panic!

Jolie, you cannot panic!

There's no way Luther actually loves Hilda.

A long while later, Luther stepped out into the living room, fully dressed and immaculate. But Jolie couldn't erase the image of his unbuttoned shirt, the way he had kissed Hilda like a man possessed, his hands roaming her body with the greedy desperation of a teenage boy.

When she spoke, her voice was painfully tight. "Are you using protection, Luther?"

A fake baby was one thing.

But if she ended up knocked up with a real one.

It would steal the inheritance from her future children.

She had to shut that down completely.

Luther's expression darkened instantly.

He had feelings for Jolie, and he felt deeply indebted to her for saving him back then. But as the CEO of Aegis Group, he absolutely refused to let a woman dictate his life—especially what happened in his bed. His face turned ice-cold. "Jolie, know your place."

Her eyes instantly filled with tears.

Because it was a private residence, she hadn't brought any staff with her. Holding the painting herself, she asked softly, "Where should I hang this?"

Luther thought for a moment before telling her to take it into the study.

There was an empty spot on the wall.

He would be able to see that wash of blue whenever he sat on the sofa.

She turned and walked away.

He couldn't be sure if it was just a trick of the light.

But Luther could have sworn he saw the faint glint of a tear in her eye.

Was Hilda crying?

…

After Jolie left, the apartment fell back into a heavy silence.

Late that night, the massive bed felt painfully hollow even with two people in it. Luther reached out, intending to pull Hilda close. But the woman remained curled on her side, her back to him. When she spoke, her voice was barely above a whisper, laced with a faint tremor. "From now on, try not to let Jolie come over here anymore. I'm worried it will affect the baby... Could you do that, Luther?"

Luther stared at the silhouette of her back in the dark.

After a long pause, he gave a low, singular "Hmm," an implicit agreement.

That tiny sound made Hilda's throat tighten.

She swore she could hear the sound of something shattering in the apartment.

Was it a vase?

Or was it her own heart?

It had broken four years ago, yet somehow, after all this time, the echo of it was finally rebounding through the dead of night, ringing endlessly in her ears.