CHAPTER 51: CHAPTER 51: ARE YOU TRYING TO SLEEP WITH YOUR MARRIED SUBORDINATE?

He spoke with such an air of entitlement.

Declan Hawthorne hadn’t slept a wink all night.

In fact, he hadn’t been sleeping well for some time.

Not since he reunited with Poppy Hale.

Every time he closed his eyes, all he saw in his dreams was Poppy Hale’s face, sometimes smiling like a blooming flower, other times angry, in both the past and the present, without exception.

She always kept telling him to stay away from her.

That version of Poppy Hale was not to Declan Hawthorne’s liking.

Parachuted into the Hawthorne Group, there was an endless list of matters awaiting his attention, reports piled high, and every time Declan Hawthorne closed his eyes, all he saw was the revenue or promotional plans for a particular quarter of the Group.

From the moment he laid eyes on Poppy Hale.

His brain hadn’t taken a break since.

Yet now, with Poppy Hale sitting in his lap, Declan Hawthorne’s previously turbulent heart found a measure of peace.

Poppy Hale took a deep breath.

"How long?"

She couldn’t just be held like this because of some fee.

Detecting a hint of impatience in her tone.

Declan Hawthorne’s thin lips curled up as he glanced at the time on his computer.

Timing it just before work, he threw out a number.

"Four hours. Don’t worry, I’ll pay you overtime."

Four hours would pass by without affecting work.

That way, she wouldn’t really need to work at all.

In this sense, she was getting the better end of the deal.

Poppy Hale sighed internally.

"President Hawthorne, I think we should talk."

She thought she had been clear enough last time.

Declan Hawthorne murmured ambiguously, "What about?"

Poppy Hale let out a soft sigh against Declan Hawthorne’s chest, his arms locking her waist, making her lean against him.

The sound of his heartbeat rang in her ears, like an unfamiliar yet familiar symphony.

Poppy Hale heard herself calmly asking, "What are you doing now? Planning to exploit a married subordinate?"

"You didn’t like me before, and you agreed to stay away from me. President Hawthorne, have you forgotten?"

She leaned against him.

The words she spoke carried no warmth.

Poppy Hale heard Declan Hawthorne’s heartbeat skip a beat, then settle back down.

His hand traced along Poppy Hale’s jaw, chuckling lightly.

"I did promise, but wasn’t it you who wanted me to be your reference?"

Poppy Hale was momentarily speechless.

"But I didn’t agree to the current situation."

"I told you, it’s a modeling fee. I wore a bespoke suit just for you, even replaced the shirt clips with new ones."

Poppy Hale gritted her teeth, "I can pay the fee."

A suppressed laugh came from the man’s chest, carrying a hint of delight.

"My fee, you can’t afford, my lady."

My lady.

That was how Mason Rivers and the others used to call her.

Poppy Hale had gotten used to it.

After all, in the Hale Family, she had been called that from a young age.

Yet when he said it, his deep voice lingered in her ears, like a bard softly singing verses, tugging at the strings of her heart.

Poppy Hale recalled how Declan Hawthorne used to participate in English speech contests in university.

Winning gold, naturally.

The school even uploaded the contest videos onto its website, which were later reposted, with talent scouts inviting Declan Hawthorne to make a debut, or at the very least, suggesting voice acting as a lucrative career.

This voice was indeed apt for it.

Trying to calm herself down, Poppy Hale asked, "So President Hawthorne’s fee is four hours?"

"Yes."

His arms holding her didn’t move an inch.

The other hand was on the mouse, appearing to resume work.

Poppy Hale couldn’t help but mumble.

"Cold-blooded capitalist, bound to meet an early demise."

Having said that, she closed her eyes.

Unable to resist, she decided to sleep.

Declan Hawthorne heard her sleep-talk-like words, but wasn’t angered.

Instead, he smiled, adjusting the position so Poppy Hale could sleep more comfortably.

With her eyes closed, Poppy Hale didn’t know that Declan Hawthorne opened the data file Allen Shaw had sent, which contained information about Sean Lynch.

As well as some photos of Sean Lynch and Poppy Hale together.

All of which were photos posted by Sean Lynch himself on social media, collated together.

There was a photo taken with a filter, featuring a timestamp below.

It didn’t appear intimate; Sean Lynch was holding a cellphone, while Poppy Hale was seated at a dining table, making a V-sign towards the camera.

There was also a middle-aged man beside them, not looking into the camera, busy peeling shrimp.

Poppy Hale’s bowl was filled with shrimp meat.

Nothing seemed off about this photo.

However, when looking at the timestamp, it was from when Poppy Hale was in college.

Initially, Declan Hawthorne assumed she had hastily married someone due to her father’s illness.

Recalling Sean Lynch’s work history with the Hale Group.

It seemed more likely they knew each other long before and intended to marry.

Scrolling down with the mouse.

It read that Sean Lynch divorced his ex-wife due to his drunken domestic violence, which the ex-wife couldn’t tolerate.

Those words abruptly caught Declan Hawthorne’s eye.

Igniting a flame of anger in him that couldn’t be quenched.

Domestic violence?

How dare he!

The blood in his veins felt like it was about to solidify, the veins on the back of his hand protruding, his actions becoming a bit forceful.

Waking up the just-asleep Poppy Hale.

She looked at him, sleepily meeting the anger he couldn’t hide in his eyes.

Like flames blazing, flickering in his dark pupils.

Poppy Hale instinctively asked, "What’s wrong?"

Declan Hawthorne lowered his head, brushing his nose against the woman in his arms, half-assertive and half-sincere, "If you’re not sleeping, chat with me."

Poppy Hale immediately closed her eyes.

She thought she wouldn’t be able to sleep beside him.

In reality, due to recent overtime, she hadn’t been sleeping well, and after exhausting her mind and physical strength on drawing, inhaling Declan Hawthorne’s familiar scent, she fell asleep as soon as she closed her eyes.

Seeing her close her eyes again.

It wasn’t clear if it was because she feared he’d really keep her chatting, or if she was just tired.

Yet she obediently snuggled against him, seemingly filling some void in his heart.

When she asked him, her voice carried a nasal tone, absent of any respectful titles that annoyed him.

As if she had woken up in his arms in the quiet of a mundane night, her sleepy voice questioning him, in this house.

In this house, he originally intended to buy as their marital home.

Every part of the decor was left flexible, half of the study was left unfilled, a large portion of the bedroom closet remained empty.

At first, Declan Hawthorne didn’t understand why he was doing it this way.

Until the designer asked if his wife had other preferences.

Declan Hawthorne reflexively denied this.

Yet the truth was something he couldn’t deny.

For years since their breakup, he couldn’t stop thinking about the woman who abandoned him.

Declan Hawthorne, a man favored by fate, had everything within reach, only a question of whether he desired it or not, with no other options.

Except, in matters of the heart, he was at a loss, harboring anger with no outlet.

Why was it, he resented the things he longed for, unable to touch boundaries, while others easily acquired them, discarding them like weed?

All because she discarded him, choosing someone else.

Allen Shaw was right.

He did want to take revenge on her.