Whispers of Destiny: His Belated Love novel Chapter 52

Maxwell’s lips were drawing into a tight line. “Rosemary, you’ve got some gall heading there!”

Rosemary let out a light chuckle. “What’s there to fear? It’s just sharing a table.”

It seemed to her that Maxwell was practically inviting scorn upon himself; she couldn’t be bothered to explain.

During their exchange, the occupants at Martin’s table noticed them. They were all familiar faces, and upon glancing over, Martin could tell Maxwell was discussing business, so he chose not to intrude.

Maxwell stared at Rosemary emotionlessly, his command resonating with a steely undertone, “Hold my arm.”

Rosemary, slightly annoyed, suppressed her voice, “It’s just a simple meal, not a banquet.  Is such formal arm-holding really necessary?”

This constant display felt like an orchestrated farce, overly theatrical for her taste.

Maxwell returned her retort with an indifferent stare. “You’re paid to deal with trouble for me. Decisions on what should or shouldn’t be done fall to me, your employer. Do you believe you have the right to refuse?”

Alright, money dictated action; who hasn’t encountered a harsh employer!

With a silent acquiescence, Rosemary complied, taking his arm. A waiter approached and led them to a secluded private room reserved for the dining.

After they were seated, Mrs. Ferber, intending to become closer with Rosemary, stared at her face and complimented, “Mrs. Templeton’s skin is really something—so fair and tender. Even from this close, your pores are invisible.”

While her words were flattering, they weren’t lies. Rosemary’s skin was indeed good, fair with that healthy glow, and a fine texture, something many women could only dream of.

Rosemary’s hope of being a mere ornament falling through, and she had to tuck away her phone. Summoning her spirit, she responded with a gracious smile, “Mrs. Ferber, you’re too kind with your words. It’s really not as extraordinary as you make it seem.”

Seeing Rosemary’s easy-going disposition and lack of arrogance—which she could well afford as Mrs. Templeton, Mrs. Ferber grew even fonder of her.

“Do you mind sharing how you take care of your skin?”

Rosemary’s routine involved basic skincare in the morning and at night, with maybe a beauty clinic visit twice a month. It must be natural, after all, her mother had great skin too.

But saying that could probably make her sound narcissist, so she shared Yolanda’s skincare routine with Mrs. Ferber instead.

As they were having an engaging conversation, a soft “thud” abruptly interrupted the moment as an empty cup was set before her. She looked up, catching a glimpse of the man’s retreating slender fingers.

Rosemary turned to the culprit, Maxwell. After a brief survey of the table, she grasped his intent and leaned in to whisper, “If you want tea, it’s best to request it from the waiter.”

The waiter was standing just outside, where a simple knock on the table would have readily called them over.

Maxwell’s voice was deep, “Then why did I spend ten million to bring you here? I could have easily spent three thousand to employ a waiter with a keener eye than yours.”

Leaning closer to Maxwell, she spoke through clenched teeth, “My role in this deal is to be an ornamental vase, sitting here to elevate your image.”

It wasn’t that she couldn’t pour the tea, but she needed to make a stand, lest Maxwell, empowered by the ten million, push her boundaries.