Whispers of Destiny: His Belated Love novel Chapter 50

At night, when Rosemary got the call from Maxwell, she had already finished her nightly routine and was ready to hit the sack.

She had been pulling all-nighters for several days and was finally managing to get to bed early tonight, but this call totally messed that up. So she sounded none too pleased, "What's up with the late-night call?"

"Open the door."

The man uttered just three words before abruptly ending the call, leaving Rosemary with her retort, "Are you out of your mind?” lingering unsaid, caught in her throat.

Pfft, as if she was going to indulge him?

Rosemary threw her phone away and lay down to sleep, not knowing whether Maxwell had guessed her thoughts or simply ran out of patience. Just as she closed her eyes, she heard a thunderous noise from the security door!

With a click, it was the neighbor's door that swung open.

The person next door was an elderly lady who didn't seem the friendliest from the few times Rosemary had seen her.

Sure enough, the old lady launched into a tirade the second she opened the door: "What's with the banging in the middle of the night? You think people don't need sleep? Have you no sense of public decency, as a grown man?!"

Soundproofing in these ordinary apartments was mediocre at best, and with the old lady's shrill voice, Rosemary could hear everything crystal clear from the innermost bedroom.

She didn't hear Maxwell speak; probably, this scion of fortune was experiencing such a scenario for the first time and was left dumbfounded?

"Don't you dare knock again, or I'm calling the cops for disturbance of peace!"

Maxwell's voice was calm but convincing: "My wife lives here. She struggles with severe depression, mania, and even schizophrenia. When she has an episode, she either wants to kill herself or others. Today, I made her mad, and she hasn't been answering my calls for half an hour."

He didn't finish, but the old lady's mind filled in the blanks with a series of grisly scenes, slapping her thigh, "Oh dear, she's a lunatic? Well, you better bust the door down and drag her out, or I'll call building management. We can't have her dying in there."

Before she could finish, Rosemary swung the door open, her face as dark as the bottom of a pan, "Come in."

That damn Maxwell, now she had to live with the tags of being suicidal and homicidal—how was she supposed to keep staying here?

The man's lips curled into a faint smirk as he strolled in, not a hint of guilt on his face for slandering her.

Rosemary frowned, irritation in her voice, "What on earth do you want?"

The entryway was dark, lit only by the light from the living room. Maxwell's gaze landed on her slender, well-proportioned fingers, "Don't you have anything to confess to me?"

"Do I have anything to confess to you?" Rosemary yawned, her eyes glossy with fatigue—it was obvious she was dead tired, "If you have something to say, then say it. Stop speaking in riddles."

His eyes cooled, and with a contained emotion, he reminded her, "The morning after the birthday banquet."

As he spoke, his hand reached for hers, ignoring her wishes and forcibly seizing her fingers. They were beautiful—long and well-shaped, with a thin callus on the pads of her thumb and index finger.

Rosemary couldn't pull her hand back, her brow furrowed in displeasure. She thought back to the morning after the banquet...

Suddenly, she realized it was about the check Martin had given her.

Maxwell knew?

At the same time, a vague pain emanated from the fingers the man held.

Rosemary's heart tightened, and she instinctively denied it: "I didn't take his money."

It wasn't fear of Maxwell actually breaking her fingers; she feared it would complicate their divorce.

Maxwell's tone was laden with sarcasm: "Why should I believe you? If you didn't ask him for it, why would he give it to you for no reason?”