Watching You Burn In Regret novel Chapter 209

Seren got into the car, started the engine, and drove straight past Sheridan without a second glance, as if he were a complete stranger.

Once they were inside the garage, she turned to Lennon, her voice hesitant. "Was I too harsh back there?" The confrontation had made her blood boil, and her words had come out sharper than she intended. She was usually better at controlling her temper, but now she worried about the impression she had made on Lennon.

"Not at all," Lennon replied. "Sheridan was the one who was out of line. He's the one who upset you."

Seren noticed that Lennon always seemed to find fault with himself or others, but never with her. He was just like Old Mr. Rutledge and his grandmother, who both spoiled her rotten.

She looked up at him. "Lennon, if you keep indulging me like this, aren't you afraid I'll become spoiled and start running wild?"

Lennon gently stroked her hair. "We're a team," he said. "If you were my wife and still facing everything alone, what use would I be? Spoiling you is what I'm here for."

"Besides," he added, "Mrs. Crestwell is a reasonable and sensible person. You won't get spoiled, and you won't run wild. And if I don't cherish such a wonderful wife, someone else surely will. I have no intention of being replaced."

His words weren't flowery romance, but they were more moving than any sweet nothing.

Seren couldn't help but smile. "I'm not that much of a catch."

Later that evening, after calming her mind by reading on the daybed, Seren went to her studio to practice her fundamentals.

Usually, this meant copying a classical painting to study its technique, but tonight, an image flashed in her mind. She ended up painting a scene of a lodge on Duskwood Mountain. The background was a range of mountains veiled in mist. An autumn wind rustled through a solitary pavilion, making the bamboo and willows sway and rippling the reflection of the lanterns on a pond, where couples strolled hand in hand.

The inscription was spontaneous, flowing from her brush without thought: *Lanterns as bright as day, faces as familiar as always. From dawn to dusk, year after year.*

The phrase "morning to night" had first come to mind, but it felt too direct, too bold. After some hesitation, she replaced it with the more poetic "from dawn to dusk."