The Platonic Trap novel Chapter 145

She opened her mouth, intending to say something.

But the moment she tried, it was as if an invisible force suffocated her words.

She wanted to speak, but only broken sobs and hot tears spilled out.

"Uncle Alistair..." Finally, as if her last shred of reason had snapped, she took a few more steps toward him and opened her arms. "Hold me..."

His response was a solid, reassuring embrace.

Alistair pulled her into his arms.

It was a warm hold, smelling faintly of cedarwood.

One hand moved up to stroke her back, while the other rested firmly on her waist.

Her waist was so slender and soft, it felt as though he could span it with a single hand.

He listened to her uninhibited, heartbroken weeping.

As if unleashing years of pent-up agony, she threw her arms around his neck and cried uncontrollably.

Her tears slid down her cheeks, dropping onto his collar and sinking deep into the fabric.

Alistair didn't say a word. He just gently patted her back, soothing her like a distressed child.

Her silken hair slipped through his fingers.

It was soft, smooth, cascading like a waterfall of floral scent.

A strange, tickling sensation brushed against his palm, barely scratching the surface of something deeper.

She cried hard, her body shuddering with every gasp, burying her face into his shoulder as if she had finally found a safe haven.

Through broken, muffled sobs, she pieced together the story of her past.

"Talbot said... he said I just got bumped into by accident. He said... he said it was no big deal..."

"He told me not to make a fuss..."

Sniffling, she remained draped over him, her voice thick with tears. "W-Was I... overreacting...?"

Alistair had been sitting in the chair.

So when he held her, she was essentially straddling his lap. He supported her waist, and she used his strength to lean fully against him.

In other words, her entire center of gravity rested on the hands holding her waist.

He held her effortlessly. Raising an eyebrow, he looked at her with dark, serious eyes. "If you're wronged, you're allowed to cry."

Hearing this, Celia sniffled, a bit sheepish. "I'm already grown up."

"Even grown-ups are allowed to complain," he said evenly.

Celia gave a watery laugh. Keeping her arms draped casually around his neck, she asked tentatively, "Uncle Alistair, if I stop complaining to you one day, does that mean I'm all grown up?"

Strangely, his mind drifted back to earlier that night.

When Ken had told him the truth, beneath the blinding rage, another unsettling emotion had surfaced.