The Platonic Trap novel Chapter 80

"That's right, it's the gift she got for me! Celia, hand it over right now!" Talbot barked, completely losing his temper.

With tears still clinging to her lashes, Celia frantically shook her head. "They aren't yours!"

"Celia, enough of this—"

Talbot was entirely convinced she was just throwing a jealous fit to get his attention.

"Mr. Forrester, she said it doesn't belong to you," Alistair interrupted, his voice dropping to a glacial, absolute zero.

"It was explicitly bought for me! The emerald cufflinks! She knows she screwed up, and she bought them to beg for my forgiveness! What kind of game are you playing, Celia? Norma literally saw you buy them!"

Talbot was practically screaming now, his face red with frustration.

Wiping her tears away, Celia looked right into his eyes, her gaze trembling but shockingly resolute. "They are not for you."

"You little—"

"Since the matter is settled, you can leave now, Mr. Forrester," Alistair commanded, a lethal edge of impatience finally slipping into his tone.

Before the words had even fully settled, several heavily built security guards emerged from the wings. Barking a highly respectful "Mr. Zucker," they immediately flanked Talbot and Evelyn.

"Time to go. Both of you."

It was only then that Celia realized this outrageously luxurious hotel was also one of Alistair's properties.

Talbot's eyes bulged in humiliated shock while Evelyn desperately tugged at his sleeve to stop him from doing something suicidal.

Swallowing his rage, he shot Celia one last, venomous glare before turning and storming out through the revolving glass doors, dragging Evelyn behind him.

In an instant, the massive, chaotic lobby was completely empty, leaving only the two of them.

"Here."

Alistair's voice was completely calm as he handed the bags over to her.

It wasn't just her recovered purse. He had also gone out of his way to bring her a massive spread of gourmet breakfast pastries from Maison Gastronomique.

Stunned, Celia took the bags. Before she could even form a sentence, Alistair spoke again.

"I have a board meeting to get to. If you need anything else, contact Ken."

With that, he turned on his heel, fully intending to walk out.

"Uncle Alistair!"

Seeing him leave, Celia panicked and called out.

Celia sat obediently on the expansive leather sofa, clutching a velvet throw pillow with her left hand while extending her right arm.

She was wearing an oversized blouse. The sleeve had been carefully rolled up past her elbow, exposing the ugly, jagged scrape running down her forearm.

Now that the fabric was pulled back, it was obvious the wound had bled quite a bit.

Alistair knelt on one knee in front of her. Frowning deeply, his elegant, long fingers hovered expertly over the ruined skin.

"Brace yourself. This is going to hurt."

The blood had dried, meaning the gauze was likely stuck directly to the raw wound.

Celia curled tightly into the corner of the sofa, the burgundy pillow hiding half her face.

She gripped the edge of the pillow, negotiating in a tiny, fragile whisper. "Could you... maybe make it not hurt, Uncle Alistair?"

It was such a childish, ridiculous request.

Alistair lowered his eyes. His thick lashes remained perfectly still, his irises deep and unfathomable.

"No."