The Platonic Trap novel Chapter 90

When Celia walked out the front doors of Elysian Club, she saw Alistair standing next to her car.

Standing there under the night sky, he looked less like a mortal man and more like a perfectly forged, ruthless embodiment of order itself.

Her eyelashes were still damp with tears, and the cool night breeze made her eyes sting a little.

Blinking softly, she called out, "Uncle Alistair."

His gaze was calm, his aura utterly restrained and disciplined. Yet, it was exactly this extreme self-control and immaculate perfection that made Celia want to ruin him.

The night air was crisp.

"Get in," he commanded smoothly.

She followed him to his car.

Ken wasn't around. Alistair took the driver's seat, and Celia slipped into the passenger side.

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

He started the engine.

Realizing they were leaving, she murmured, "Uncle Alistair, my car is still parked here."

"I'll have Ken drive it back."

Accepting this, Celia fell silent.

The sleek, understated luxury car smoothly turned onto the main road, leaving the glittering club behind.

Navigating the sleepless Capital, Alistair drove down the long avenues, surrounded by the endless sea of city lights.

This wasn't the route back to the Stafford Villa.

Biting her lip slightly, she stole a glance at the man behind the wheel.

He sat impeccably in his tailored suit, both hands resting on the steering wheel, his eyes fixed on the road.

The passing streetlights danced across his face, softening the sharp, intimidating angles of his jaw.

"Uncle Alistair, where are we going?" she asked softly.

Keeping his eyes ahead, he replied, "To get food."

She nodded and didn't push further.

The rest of the drive was quiet.

"Uncle Alistair?"

"Come in," his cool, even voice answered.

Pushing the door open, she padded softly over to his heavy wooden desk and murmured, "I'm sorry..."

He was reading a book.

Hearing her apology, he looked up.

She had shed the heavy, glamorous gown for a simple, comfortable set of loungewear.

"Why are you apologizing?" he asked.

Keeping her gaze down, she whispered, "I shouldn't have ruined your welcome gala."

His eyes didn't waver.

Having removed his suit jacket, he wore a tailored, dark waistcoat that perfectly accentuated his lean waist and broad shoulders. Silver sleeve garters gripped his biceps, meticulous and impossibly elegant.

Staring at the sleek garters holding his sleeves in place, her mind briefly short-circuited. She completely missed the moment he closed his book and set it aside.

"While Sheridan is in Chrysea these next few months, you're staying here."