CHAPTER 105: CHAPTER 105: A STUNNING MASTERPIECE

The room was calm and still, but Ann Vaughn’s little head in the bathroom was about to explode.

She had finally managed to take a hot bath and suddenly remembered something important.

There were no! clothes! here! for her! to change into!

"Cyrus Hawthorne..."

Ann Vaughn’s soft and gentle voice came from the bathroom, tinged with a shyness that made her want to bury her head in the bathtub, "Could you find me some clothes? My wardrobe in my room was burned too..."

The clothes inside were most likely not spared either.

Fortunately, there was nothing too valuable there, so there wasn’t much loss.

Ann Vaughn stood in the bathroom, biting her lip in annoyance.

Her attraction to beauty led her impulsively to rush into the bathroom, and now she was stuck.

Cyrus Hawthorne’s response did not come from outside.

After about five or six minutes, Ann Vaughn even suspected he might have fallen asleep, so she quietly opened a crack in the door to peek outside.

But there was no sign of Cyrus Hawthorne.

He wasn’t there.

Ann Vaughn’s bright eyes glanced mischievously at his wardrobe.

She dashed out of the bathroom, heading straight for the simple and luxurious wardrobe, ready to find something to wear for now.

Just then, the door made a soft sound.

As Cyrus Hawthorne walked back and hung up his call, his narrow eyes inadvertently caught a scene that was enough to make anyone’s blood boil.

Click.

The door closed, and the sound jolted Ann Vaughn to turn her head. Seeing the man standing by the door, her body gradually stiffened.

The soft orange light in the room cascaded down from above, layering like a mysterious veil between light and shadow, sketching an exquisite and enchanting scene.

The temperature in the room began to rise, part embarrassment, part warmth.

Cyrus Hawthorne’s Adam’s apple moved ever so slightly, his narrow eyes deeper than the night outside, carrying a restrained but intense gleam, like a leopard lurking in the dark, ready to pounce on its prey.

"Your clothes will arrive in the morning. Wear mine for now."

His voice was calm and indifferent, with no sign of emotional fluctuation.

Ann Vaughn’s face was already so red it seemed like it might bleed. Her heart, which had been pounding with embarrassment, cooled for a second upon hearing his calm voice, and her lips pressed tightly together.

"I got it." She clutched the clothes in her arms and ran into the bathroom, her ears still blushing red.

Once she left, Cyrus Hawthorne picked up an unopened bottle of ice water, twisted it open, and drank it all in one go.

But the icy water did nothing to quench the growing heat in his lower abdomen; instead, it grew more intense.

To relieve the awkwardness, Ann Vaughn stayed in the bathroom for quite some time before emerging.

Seeing Cyrus Hawthorne already lying on one side of the bed with his eyes closed in rest, she quietly let out a sigh of relief, treading lightly to the bed, carefully lifting the covers and slipping in.

It was as if there were a river running between them on the bed, with enough space for both to lay apart.

Ann Vaughn hugged the blanket, barely daring to breathe too heavily, afraid she’d wake Cyrus and he’d bring up what had just happened.

All her senses tingled with embarrassment, a sudden urge to cover her face burning hot.

She might as well explode on the spot!

Just then, Cyrus Hawthorne’s low, magnetic voice came from the side: "Let’s resume the acupuncture we stopped last time, this week."

"Huh? Oh, alright." Ann Vaughn shifted her stiff back awkwardly and replied.

Then there was another long silence.

Feeling completely drained from the night’s events, Ann Vaughn, who had been too embarrassed to close her eyes, soon fell asleep.

"Also, starting tomorrow, you’ll join me at the company as a Food Therapist..."

Listening to the steady and long breaths beside him, Cyrus Hawthorne paused slightly, his long fingers gently rubbing his tired brow.

However, when he closed his eyes, all he could see were images that should not appear.

-

The next morning.

Not long after Ann Vaughn awoke, a group of people in business attire entered the room, placing the delivered clothes on the table in front of the sofa.

Besides clothing, there were matching shoes, bags, and accessories. The array was so dazzling that the area resembled a store display.

"Miss Vaughn, these are the new collection from our brand’s magazine. If you like any set, feel free to contact us, and we’ll deliver it to you."

"If you want something custom-made, our designers can personally serve you. Time was short this time, so we couldn’t ask your preferences."

Looking at the pile of items, Ann Vaughn’s lips tugged slightly, then she told them, "No need, thank you for the trouble."

Only then did they leave.

Although Ann Vaughn never cared much for brand-name clothing, seeing such a display, she guessed the total amounted to at least seven figures.

Ann Vaughn took a simple knee-length dress into the bathroom to freshen up, changed, and went down for breakfast.

As soon as she reached the dining room, she saw Cyrus Hawthorne sitting at the head of the table, with Mark Joyce next to him confirming his schedule for the day.

He occasionally nodded, eating with such elegant poise that it was impossible to fault his perfect etiquette.

"Morning." The moment Ann Vaughn saw him, the embarrassment from last night resurfaced, and she found a seat furthest from him to sit.

Cyrus Hawthorne merely nodded slightly, not acknowledging her, sipping his coffee by his side.

If observed closely, one could glimpse his barely concealed agitation in his eyes.

Seeing that he seemed unperturbed by last night’s incident, Ann Vaughn quietly exhaled.

After all, to him, women fell into two categories: one was Cynthia Vaughn, and the other was everyone else.

He held no feelings for her, so how could he possibly react to her body?

Yet she couldn’t suppress her own shame, secretly thinking that her figure probably wasn’t too terrible.

Overthinking is a flaw indeed.

Ann Vaughn’s shoulders slumped, emotions tangled at her chest—part relief, part disappointment, leaving a bit of emptiness.

"Did they catch the arsonist?" Ann Vaughn bit into a piece of bacon, recalling the matter and looked up to ask.

"Yes, it’s been dealt with," Cyrus Hawthorne replied, indifferent and tepidly, "We’ve replaced the manor’s guards and updated the security system; there won’t be any more lapses."

Then, he looked directly at Ann Vaughn, his long eyes holding an inscrutable coolness, "There’s only one thing; my tolerance for you is limited."

Ann Vaughn immediately understood he was warning her not to think about escaping again, clenching the knife and fork in her hand.

"When will you let me go," she raised her face and stared at Cyrus Hawthorne, "You must know that if you transplant my heart to Cynthia Vaughn, both I and the child will die."

"Will you still do it, even so?"

Silence began to envelop the dining room—

After a moment, Cyrus Hawthorne set down his coffee cup, his gaze devoid of any warmth as he looked at her, "Such a question holds no hypothetical meaning; it does not fall within my scope of consideration."