CHAPTER 99: DRAKE’S BIRTHDAY PARTY INVITATION

Though officially Lucas’s assistant, Beauty was essentially a glorified errand girl—running tasks not just for him, but also for Sarah whenever summoned.

She barely spent a minute in her own office, constantly shuttling between Lucas’s and Sarah’s workspaces in five-centimeter heels.

Her calves had practically developed muscle definition from all the walking.

Sinking onto the sofa, she massaged her aching ankles, where the shoes had rubbed her skin raw, exposing tender red flesh beneath.

The sting made her wince.

"A few steps and you’re already falling apart?

Pathetic for someone wearing heels."

A cold voice cut through the air.

Lucas strode in after his meeting, arms crossed as he studied her with icy, gleaming eyes.

Beauty pressed her lips together, rising indignantly to her feet.

Barefoot on the office carpet, she planted her hands on her hips, her delicate face scrunched in fury.

"Hmph!

You think walking in heels is easy?

Every girl has scars from them!

Instead of mocking me, why don’t you try it yourself?"

She was fuming, her brows knitted tightly, past the point of holding back.

Lucas ignored her outburst—to him, her temper tantrums were nothing but childish drama.

He walked to the cabinet, retrieved a small bottle of antiseptic and a bandage, then strode back and sat beside her.

Without warning, he lifted her foot.

"Wh-what are you doing?"

Beauty flinched, curling her toes defensively.

In her eyes, Lucas was hardly the type to do anything kind.

Suspicion flickered in her gaze as she arched a skeptical brow at him.

His expression darkened at the sight of her reddened heels and swollen ankles.

His long fingers brushed the top of her foot, his palm cool against her skin.

Perhaps the office air conditioning was set too low, for his hands were icy cold.

Noticing the chill in his palms, he gently rested her ankle across his knees, his long, well-defined fingers pressing together as he rubbed them lightly to warm them.

Only when his fingertips regained some heat did he resume massaging her ankle with care.

"Don’t wear high heels for the next couple of days," he advised, his voice steady.

"Find a pair of soft flats instead—it’ll help the wound heal faster."

... Huh?

Has the sun risen from the west today?

Since when did this *pervy* uncle of hers turned so... gentle?

It was downright unsettling! But the tenderness lasted all of three seconds.

Just as Beauty was starting to feel touched, Lucas tilted his chin slightly and cast her a cool glance.

"You’re truly one of a kind. I’ve never met a girl who can’t even walk in heels properly.

Take a page from Sarah’s book—*that’s* how a real lady carries herself."

Beauty’s brow twitched.

She took a deep breath, then shot him in glare.

"I *told* you I’ve never worn heels before!

And I never claimed to be some refined lady—*you’re* the one who forced me into this!

How could I possibly compare to Miss Sarah?"

"At least you’re self-aware.

There’s hope for you yet."

The sarcastic remark made her face instantly darken.

Whatever tiny shred of goodwill she’d felt toward him evaporated on the spot.

Her cheeks puffed up in irritation, her eyes bulging like an angry goldfish.

Just then, the office door swung open.

Both Beauty and Lucas turned their heads in unison— Only to meet the roguish grin of Drake.

Sensing the tense atmosphere, Drake arched an elegant eyebrow and shot Lucas a teasing look.

Clearing his throat with deliberate nonchalance, he drawled, "What’s this?

Did I come at a bad time?"

"Then leave."

The response came in a deep, emotionless voice that revealed nothing.

Beauty always found Drake fascinating.

The man wasn’t actually unpleasant—he just insisted on playing the rogue, mimicking those spoiled playboys from wealthy families.

Despite his aristocratic bearing, he deliberately carried himself like some street punk or shameless scoundrel.

"Now that’s just cruel," Drake protested, slipping one hand into his pocket while tilting his chin up with a roguish smirk.

His doe-like eyes—dark, luminous, and undeniably captivating—could probably melt any woman’s resistance.

No wonder countless girls swooned over him! It finally dawned on Beauty why so many women threw themselves at Drake.

Sure, the Drake family was an influential dynasty spanning military, political, and business circles.

But beyond that, Drake himself was the very definition of aristocratic pedigree—descended from distinguished generals, though he’d chosen commerce over military service.

His charm carried both the upright integrity of a soldier and a dash of untamed charisma.

Who wouldn’t be drawn to someone like that? Sarah certainly was.

"If that’s an invitation to your birthday party, save it.

Given our relationship, do I really need a formal invite?"

Lucas leaned against the desk, his spine ramrod straight as he lifted his icy gaze to meet the other man’s.

Drake curled his lips into a smirk, casually brushing aside the jet-black hair near his ear.

With a raised brow, he turned to Beauty.

"To show my sincerity, I came all the way here personally to invite you—well, mostly Beauty—to my birthday party next Wednesday."

He paused, flashing a teasing grin.

"Did you really think I wanted to invite *you*? Nah, it’s all about Beauty."

The way he kept calling her "Beauty" made her skin crawl.

She took the black invitation from his hand, lips curving into a sweet smile.

"Thanks, Uncle Drake.

Don’t worry, I’ll definitely be there!"

Uncle Drake..

Drake’s brow twitched violently.

Since when did he suddenly gain a niece?

The generational math wasn’t adding up.

Watching his flustered expression, Beauty beamed, her eyes sparkling with mischief.

If he insisted on calling her "Beauty," then she had every right to address him as "Uncle" in return.

A faint, almost imperceptible smile flickered at the corner of Lucas’s lips before vanishing just as quickly.

His long fingers tapped rhythmically against the desk, each knock deliberate.

After a brief silence, he spoke, voice laced with cold amusement.

"I doubt you came here just to deliver an invitation.

Seems like you’ve got ulterior motives."

The words struck a chord.

Drake’s expression relaxed, a roguish grin spreading across his face as he turned back to Beauty.

His doe-like eyes twinkled playfully, a deliberate charm in his gaze.

"Beauty, how about doing your dear *uncle* a favor..."

Only then did Beauty realize—she’d just walked right into his trap, and worse, she’d handed him the advantage herself.

Her little face instantly fell, her rosy lips pursing in a pout.

Lucas saw right through her thoughts.

Lowering his gaze to hide his amusement, he stood by the floor-to-ceiling blinds as sunlight streamed through the slats, casting a golden halo around his sharp features.

"What kind of favor?" he asked, his voice smooth but firm.

"If you’re hoping I’ll deliver an invitation to Sarah for you, forget it.

If you’re sincere, do it yourself."

Drake was left speechless by Beauty’s sharp retort—or maybe it was just because she had hit a nerve.

His dark eyes narrowed like a sly old fox’s, and he let out a dry chuckle.

"Figures," he muttered.

"You really are Lucas’s woman."