CHAPTER 33: CHAPTER 33: RHYS HAWTHORNE LAYS IT OUT TO JULIAN FORDHAM: SHE’S MINE

Julian Fordham never expected that the person secretly helping Victoria Monroe was him.

Rhys Hawthorne met Julian Fordham’s gaze through a layer of glass.

He stood high above, looking down at Julian with an utterly emotionless gaze, as indifferent as an immortal standing atop the clouds.

If it was him, Julian Fordham was not surprised.

Years ago, he secretly visited the set, disguised as a crew member to surprise Victoria Monroe.

He caught sight of the two filming; Victoria Monroe came out of character as soon as the scene wrapped, while Rhys Hawthorne stared intently at her departing figure.

At that moment, he seemed to become the male lead in the drama, so obsessed with the heroine.

That gaze was too familiar to Julian Fordham as a man; no one knew better than him the allure of Victoria Monroe.

This young man was completely different from those leading characters she had met before; clearly younger than him, yet with a deep and unreadable mind.

Later, when the gossip about the two of them stirred up rumors, Julian Fordham felt uneasy and thus sought ways to pull Victoria Monroe out of the circle, giving no other man a chance.

Years passed, and Rhys Hawthorne was no longer the young man first seen on set.

He grew into a mature and steady man, inherently possessing an authoritative demeanor as he looked down from above.

The surname Hawthorne, Portoros, in Julian Fordham’s mind, everything made sense.

Assistant Woods approached him, no longer the easygoing appearance he had in front of Victoria Monroe, his expression serious and efficient, "Mr. Fordham, our third master has been waiting for a long time."

Third master.

Julian Fordham’s thumb and forefinger subconsciously rubbed together, his heart sank.

He never thought it would be the third young master of the Hawthorne Family.

A true son born with a silver spoon, described as rich and privileged without any contradiction.

No wonder even Dominic Scott, such a renowned international lawyer, flew over from Portoros with just one phone call.

Julian Fordham now also stepped into this circle, knowing well the advantages of power.

He followed Assistant Woods into the living room, where the first thing he saw was a pair of women’s slippers.

Assistant Woods gestured invitingly, "Please."

The room was large and empty.

It was just like the person’s cold, aloof nature, the decor simple yet everywhere demonstrating grandiose power and status.

Rhys Hawthorne awaited Julian Fordham in the tea room.

A thousand-year-old rosewood root-carved tea table, carved neither with landscapes nor auspicious gods, but with figures of sorrowful and fearful skeletal remains.

They seemed to be struggling, yearning.

When the boiling tea flowed down, it resembled the scene of The Netherworld.

And the man dressed in a perfectly tailored white shirt, the cuffs slightly rolled up, no wristwatch, but a black prayer beads bracelet adorned his slightly protruding veins, creating a sharp contrast with the scene.

The room was filled with the scent of pine and sandalwood; the answer was obvious.

The scent on Victoria Monroe came from him.

Rhys Hawthorne raised his hand, his voice calm: "Sit."

Absent was the tension Julian Fordham had imagined; he seemed too transcendent.

Julian Fordham merely glanced at the tea table in front of him and should have known this man wasn’t just the peaceful and calm appearance he projected.

He sat across from Rhys Hawthorne, who pushed a teacup towards him.

Julian Fordham calmly savored the tea.

Veridian millennia-old mother tree Da Hong Pao, worth six figures per gram; even with wealth, it was rare to spot genuine tea, yet in the Hawthorne Family it was merely the basic hospitality tea.

Julian Fordham had a cake of it, gifted not long ago, while Rhys Hawthorne used it merely as mouthwash.

He placed the teacup down and spoke: "Is Mr. Hawthorne here so late just to invite me for tea?"

Rhys Hawthorne toyed with the prayer beads, scrutinizing the man in front of him, who had changed from his impression.

Julian Fordham would once pretend to be a crew’s helper to surprise Victoria Monroe, sneaking under the noses of the production crew like rebellious junior high students kissing under a tree.

Back then, his eyes were pure, filled entirely with Victoria Monroe.

Not like now, donned in a suit and tie, his aura composed, his eyes full of a businessman’s calculating glint.

Rhys Hawthorne’s lips parted: "The year we filmed at Veridian, you went through hoops and spent over thirty hours to see Victoria Monroe."

Julian Fordham froze, not expecting him to say such a thing.

Even an experienced businessman like him was caught off guard, "So...?"

"You crossed mountains and rivers just to hear she had a cough, wanting to make her a bowl of pear syrup; I know, you truly loved her, and she gazed at you with love-filled eyes."

"Now, for work, you can repeatedly disregard her feelings; maybe you still love her, yet not only her."

The man in front, three years younger than him, had eyes piercingly sharp.

Julian Fordham suppressed the unspoken unease within, "This is between me and my wife, irrelevant to Mr. Hawthorne."

Rhys Hawthorne also ceased beating around the bush: "Mr. Fordham, I hope you can divorce Victoria Monroe, part ways amicably."

"Impossible." Julian Fordham replied bluntly.

"Mr. Hawthorne is wrong; I loved her in the past, and now my love for her is just as strong, I will not let go; but Mr. Hawthorne eyeing another man’s wife is not gentlemanly."

Rhys Hawthorne listened to his words, and a smile suddenly appeared on his lips.

Among the bones struggling bitterly, his smile contained no pity, like a destroyer of life obliterating the world.

"Mr. Fordham, back then you had nothing, I deemed you and Victoria Monroe so well matched, I never coveted her in the slightest; if I must define my feelings for her, it can only be I hoped for her happiness, even anticipating your wedding, preparing a grand gift for you two."

"But as far as I know, you only received your marriage certificate, without any wedding ceremony, not even a single wedding photo, that flower that should have been cherished is slowly withering away."

Rhys Hawthorne’s fingers paused in playing with the prayer beads, his aura suddenly changed, "Now, you no longer deserve her!"

This statement from an outsider was a tremendous insult to Julian Fordham.

His retort sounded powerless: "Our marital affairs are not for an outsider to dictate."

"Is that so?"

Rhys Hawthorne’s smile widened, unreservedly arrogant: "This time, I won’t let go again! Julian Fordham, you were out the moment you betrayed her."

"I have set my sights on her."