Whispers of Destiny: His Belated Love novel Chapter 163

Maxwell stepped out of the shower and his face changed in an instant when he saw someone lounging on his bed. "What are you doing here?"

Martin, who had somehow produced a high school chemistry book, didn't even bother to look up. "She doesn't want to stay with you."

"Well, I don't want to stay with you either. So if you're dead set on being a nuisance, make yourself a bed on the floor."

Finally, Martin tore his gaze away from the book, gave Maxwell a look, then sprawled out on the bed, closed his eyes, and went to sleep.

Maxwell wasn't usually picky about where he slept, but tonight, sleep was elusive. He sat on the balcony sofa, smoking a cigarette and staring at the night view.

Though the winter temperatures in Havenfield are higher than in Greenwood, the damp and bone-chilling cold was hard to bear.

The balcony and bedroom were separated by a sliding door, which was tightly closed, preventing the warm air from the heater from reaching the balcony. His hand holding the cigarette was already numb from the cold.

After finishing his cigarette, Maxwell crushed it out and went back into the bedroom.

As he passed the vanity, his eyes lingered on the hairdryer, and his expression darkened slightly.

In the dead of night, Maxwell was half-awake when he was roused by a subtle noise outside. He opened the door and saw a figure hunched over, rifling through the TV cabinet drawers.

The other hand, holding a phone flashlight, was shaking slightly, causing the light to dance around.

It was past 2 a.m.; the neon signs outside were off, leaving only the streetlights casting a feeble glow. Jeremy's place was high up, so the light that filtered in was dim, barely enough to see by.

Squinting, Maxwell sized up the shadowy figure: her hair was a mess, back turned to him, draped in a familiar-looking milk-white coral fleece pajama set.

It was—Rosemary.

What on earth was she up to at this ungodly hour?

Maxwell strode over, "What are you doing, rummaging around in the middle of the night?"

He didn't tiptoe or anything. In fact, his footsteps were even heavier, thanks to the cheap slippers he was wearing, but Rosemary still jumped when he spoke up.

"Ah..."

With a soft yelp, she tumbled to the floor, her phone clattering before her, the flashlight's stark white beam shining upon her face, highlighting her pallor and the sweat beads as big as peas on her forehead and nose.

Maxwell's expression shifted slightly as he reached to touch her forehead. "What's wrong with you?"

Breaking out in a sweat like that in the dead of winter? Definitely not normal.

Rosemary, stuck on the floor and voice quivering, replied, "My stomach... it hurts so bad. Can you look for some medicine for me?"

She was completely out of steam; otherwise, she wouldn't have asked Maxwell for help.

His palm met her forehead and came away slick with sweat. Her skin was ice-cold, like touching a block of ice.

"We're going to the hospital."

He grabbed the car keys from the coffee table and scooped Rosemary up in his arms.

Rosemary wanted to protest, but the pain was so intense she couldn't even muster the energy to shake her head, so she just curled up in his embrace, gripping the collar of his pajama top tightly.

The waves of cramping pain from her stomach had sapped all her strength, leaving her no room to struggle.

As he opened the door, the draft from the hallway hit them, sending a shiver down Rosemary's spine and momentarily clearing the fog of pain in her head. She pushed at Maxwell, "Go put on some clothes."

Rosemary was in so much pain, she fixed her gaze on Maxwell's chiseled jawline, trying to distract herself with conversation, "You familiar with Havenfield?"

He had made a beeline for this place without a single wrong turn.

Maxwell, holding her as they approached the triage desk, watched his Adam's apple bob. After a moment, he grunted a monosyllabic, "Yeah."

"Were you here on business before?" she guessed.

Maxwell looked down, his eyes boring into hers. Just when Rosemary thought he would answer, he bluntly said, "How much longer are you planning on clinging to me?"

A woman's chuckle came from up ahead; they'd reached the triage desk, and Rosemary realized she was still gripping Maxwell's pajama collar tightly. She'd undone a couple of his buttons, exposing his firm chest.

The earlier laughter belonged to the on-duty nurse, and now everyone around was eyeing them, their gazes curious and amused.

This was... utterly mortifying!

Rosemary was too flustered to care about the pain as she scrambled off him. As soon as she tried to stand straight, a sharp pain tore through her abdomen, and she doubled over, her face even paler than before.

The nurse asked about Rosemary's symptoms and pressed on her stomach, asking with each press, "Does this hurt?"

"Yeah."

"And here?"

"It hurts..."

Maxwell's never been one to wear a sunny expression, and now, hearing Rosemary cry out in pain, his face turned even frostier. He snapped like some sort of tyrant, "Easy there! Even a bull couldn't stand your rough handling. If her stomach's giving her grief, get her to a doctor who deals with tummy troubles."