The Year I Stopped Being His novel Chapter 302

Night fell heavily over the Foster Estate. The dinner had concluded, leaving behind the lingering scent of rich wine and the scattered glow of dim lighting across the quiet living room.

Quinn had consumed far too much alcohol.

A deep flush crawled up her neck and coated her face, her eyes glazed with a hazy, liquid sheen. Her usual poised and elegant demeanor was entirely stripped away. Stumbling in her heels, she swayed across the vast space, her gaze utterly fixated on the man standing by the window—Garrison.

It had been far too long since she last laid eyes on him.

Right after the funeral five years ago, Garrison had laid his cards on the table. He explicitly told her that he would never, ever have feelings for her.

He had warned her to keep her distance, claiming that her proximity made him... disgusted.

Disgusted?

The word was a laughable, agonizing joke to Quinn. She had sacrificed her youth for this family. She had spent over a decade silently standing behind him, fiercely guarding him! She had ripped her own heart out for him, and all she got in return was his disgust.

At first, she refused to believe Garrison could be so heartless—that he would ice her out, treat her with such staggering indifference, and sever their bond completely.

But Garrison was a man of his word. He swiftly packed his bags, moved out of the estate, and started living on his own.

Over the years, his visits home could be counted on one hand. He would either drop in briefly to grab something, or swoop in to pick up Archie, only returning the boy days later.

He never spared more than a passing syllable for his parents, and he certainly never spared a single glance for her!

Five years.

Sloane had been dead for five entire years, yet the glacial fortress Garrison had built around himself showed zero signs of thawing. If anything, the ice had grown thicker.

But why?

Taking in her pathetic state, Garrison reluctantly suppressed his annoyance, mindful of their shared past. He stepped forward and firmly gripped her swaying form. "If you can't stand, I'll help you upstairs," he said coldly.

His grip was steady and calculated, grasping only her forearm. He maintained a rigid, safe distance, enforcing an impenetrable boundary without stepping a single toe out of line.

But this physical touch—the first in years—melted Quinn's defenses into a helpless puddle.

Emboldened by the alcohol and her overflowing desires, she let her knees buckle. She went entirely limp, angling her body to collapse directly into Garrison's embrace, aiming to rest her head against his broad chest.

The air in the room instantly turned to lead.

The absolute last thread of Garrison's tolerance snapped, unleashing a suffocating wave of freezing hostility.

He refused to indulge her pathetic, boundary-crossing seduction for another second! The instant she tilted into his space, he yanked his arm back and sidestepped with surgical precision. The motion was clean, ruthless, and left no room for misinterpretation. He simply let her fall, neither pushing her nor raising his voice—maintaining the absolute bare minimum of decency.