The Platonic Trap novel Chapter 65

Soft and delicate. It felt like something impossibly soft—like a cloud, like cotton, or like a tiny, fragile kitten—crashing straight into him.

Her voice still carried that timid, aggrieved tone, sweet and sticky like melting caramel.

Alistair was facing away from her.

The weightless tug on his sleeve vanished, replaced by that one highly wounded sentence.

"I hate you..."

Alistair's temple gave a slight throb.

Even with Jessica screaming indignantly outside the gates, all he could hear was Celia's little declaration of hatred.

He turned around to face her formally.

The young woman was curled up on the sofa. Her long hair cascaded naturally over her chest, looking unusually fluffy and soft since it had just been blow-dried.

Alistair knew next to nothing about women's fashion.

He had simply ordered the maids to buy a few outfits so she had something clean to change into.

He had never seen her in a bodycon dress before.

The fabric hugged the lines of her waist and hips perfectly, and even with her curled up like that, the elegant curve of her silhouette was undeniable.

There wasn't a prudish bone in Alistair's body, but looking at her now, a fleeting thought crossed his mind: *She's still young. I shouldn't have had them buy something so revealing.*

Of course, the absurd thought evaporated the second it materialized.

Because he suddenly remembered she was twenty-two. Hardly a child.

Celia refused to look at him, her head turned slightly away, clearly throwing a tantrum.

Alistair felt he had mishandled the situation and owed her a genuine apology.

With that in mind, he stepped closer and crouched down in front of her. His lean, powerful frame folded smoothly, creating a strikingly elegant posture.

He was exceptionally tall, so this was the only way to meet the young woman on the sofa eye-to-eye.

Celia kept her face turned away, her long eyelashes dampened by tears, shimmering with a crystalline gloss.

"I apologize, Celia. That was my fault."

Celia absorbed his response.

*That's her problem, not mine,*

He was so utterly logical it was almost apathetic.

He drew a brutal line between his professional life and personal feelings. When faced with someone else's affection, he offered absolutely zero reciprocation.

Because to him, dealing with their feelings was their own responsibility; as a bystander, it had nothing to do with him.

Her eyelashes fluttered.

Celia swiftly suppressed the emotion in her eyes, turning her head back and finally meeting his gaze.

Sitting on the sofa, she looked down at him slightly.

Alistair hadn't changed clothes yet.

The two faint watermarks on his waist were already drying, fading away just like the rare glimpse of tenderness he had shown her moments ago.