The Platonic Trap novel Chapter 121

Outside, the heavy rain poured relentlessly.

Through the thick glass, the rhythmic drumming of the downpour reached Alistair's ears in a muffled hum.

The stifling heat of the storm swept up the scent of damp earth, filling the air with the rich aroma of wet soil and bruised grass.

Crash—

While a torrential downpour raged outside, the interior of the living room remained brilliantly lit, warm, and expansive.

Alistair's brow furrowed tightly, his voice low and raspy. "Celia, look up."

The young woman was curled up on the sofa, her slender frame swallowed by his oversized suit jacket. She kept her face buried against his chest, only offering a slight shake of her head in response.

"Uncle Alistair, I'm tired."

A flash of dark, cold emotion crossed the man's eyes.

At some point, her fingers had stopped playing with his cufflinks and instead gripped his sleeve, clutching the fabric so tightly it seemed she might permanently crease it.

Against his chest, she felt warm and slightly damp.

Alistair's lips pressed into a thin line. Taking control, the hand she had been clutching suddenly shifted, his fingers wrapping firmly around her wrist.

Her wrist bones felt impossibly frail and delicate. Frowning slightly, his grip tightened on instinct.

"Celia," he said, his voice low and laced with an unquestionable authority. "Look at me."

Finally, he noticed the faint trembling of her shoulders. The skin of the wrist he held felt searingly hot, almost as if it were burning him.

With his free hand, he caught her chin, tilting her face upward.

His eyes darkened further. Narrowing his gaze, he took in her expression.

The corners of her eyes were flushed red, her vision blurred with unshed tears.

Reflected in her tear-filled eyes, he saw his own face—etched with coldness and a hint of confusion.

"Why are you crying?"

Alistair lowered his gaze, his voice deep and glacial.

Celia simply shook her head, her tone quivering. "Work is just so hard..."

His brow lowered. He couldn't quite tell if she was being genuine or not.

That soft weight pressed against him once again.

Feeling the gentle pressure against his solid arm, Alistair's frown deepened, his lips pressing tight.

The rain outside grew heavier.

Leaning his head back slightly, he gave a faint nod. "I promise you."

Hearing this, the light finally returned to her eyes.

Pulling back just a little, her gaze softened, shimmering with relief. "Thank you, Uncle Alistair."

The grip on her wrist loosened. Alistair looked down at her and adjusted his posture. "It's still uncertain whether this project will turn a profit. You don't need to put so much pressure on yourself."

Celia rested her head back on his shoulder, her voice muffled and still lacking its usual energy. "Then you have to help me..."

Alistair figured that perhaps it was because he had promised Mr. Stafford he would look after her.

—He had grown very accustomed to her seeking his help.

"What do you want?" he asked, his voice low.