Zoe Lancaster’s back went cold. Tears hung on her eyelashes as she looked up at him in a daze.
She had no one to rely on. The incident today needed someone to handle it, so she had ultimately contacted Simon Hawthorne, letting him see her in this miserable, wretched state.
Coming back to her senses, Zoe was overwhelmed by an indescribable emotion. She released her grip on Simon, burying her chin almost into her chest. She deeply felt the sour, helpless realization of their dynamic—seemingly intimate, yet separated by a bottomless, uncrossable chasm.
After all, between her and Simon, it had always been a one-woman show.
Simon cast a faint glance at her and turned away to negotiate with the police officers.
Nearly twenty minutes later, Simon finally led Zoe out of the police station.
Getting into Simon’s car, Zoe remained silent.
Simon turned on the heater, his expression as calm and unruffled as ever. "Should I take you home?"
Zoe’s nerves were struck. Still trembling with lingering fear, she subconsciously spoke in a hoarse voice, "I’m scared to be alone..."
As soon as the words left her mouth, the atmosphere seemed to shift.
Her words were too suggestive, making even her own face heat up with embarrassment. She hurriedly explained, "I didn’t mean I want you to stay with me, I just..."
"What are you panicking for?" Simon had already started the engine. Amidst the alternating lights and shadows outside the window, his rather cold voice floated over. "You think I’m afraid you’ll eat me?"
Zoe immediately shut her mouth. She wondered why that sounded so wrong.
Simon drove her back to her residential complex. Upon getting out of the car, Zoe’s legs gave out, and she nearly lost her balance. She quickly grabbed onto Simon’s arm. He looked down at her and asked faintly, "Can you still use your legs? Or do you want me to carry you?"
That statement was truly ambiguous; she couldn’t tell if it was out of concern or mockery. Zoe knew he probably thought she was putting on an act. Too exhausted to explain, she immediately let go of him and silently shuffled forward.
Before she could take two steps, the world spun around her. Simon had scooped her up into his arms. Startled, she looped her arms around his neck and stared up at his callous jawline in astonishment.
Simon didn’t say another word. It wasn’t until they took the elevator up to Zoe’s front door that he finally deigned to speak. "Left pocket."
Zoe understood and immediately reached in to fish out her keys. She freed one hand to unlock the door. The moment it swung open, Heartbreaker sprinted over like a track athlete, barking unfriendlily at Simon, "WOOF! WOOF! WOOF!"
Simon cast a cold glance at the dog at his feet. "You sure know how to keep dogs."
This one counted as one. The man at the entrance of The Jade Palace counted as another. They were just different breeds. But a lapdog wasn’t even as noble a breed as the literal dog currently under his feet.
Zoe couldn’t comprehend Simon’s underlying meaning. She could only scold Heartbreaker, "Stop barking. He’s... uh..." She abruptly clamped her mouth shut, not daring to let the phrase "scumbag dad" slip out.
Simon carried her straight to the sofa and set her down. Heartbreaker kept barking as it followed them, acting very protective of Zoe.
Simon glanced at it. "Why give it such an awful name?"
Zoe averted her gaze. "Just for fun."
He pushed up his glasses with his fingertips, his tone carrying a faint hint of sarcasm. "I thought you were aiming it at someone specific."
"Why would you think that?" Zoe muttered. "I was actually a bit worried at first that someone might take it personally. I didn’t mean anything by it, but I can’t stop others from letting their imaginations run wild."
Simon’s lips suddenly twitched upwards, though the coldness in his expression held little human warmth. "I see you’ve recovered quite quickly. You’re sharp-tongued now—not scared anymore?"
At his words, Zoe’s body tensed up all over again. She looked down and saw the bloodstains on her clothes. Her stomach churned violently. She hurriedly took off her coat and tossed it into the laundry basket. Her mind couldn’t stop flashing back to the drunkard’s hideous, twisted face. "How... is he?"
"Dead," Simon said, his tone as casual as if he were remarking on having just eaten dinner.
Zoe’s face went deathly pale. "How is that possible...? I clearly..."
Simon scrutinized her indifferently. "Yes. He’s right behind you, coming to claim your life."
Already traumatized, his eerie remark completely shattered Zoe’s psychological defenses. She shrieked in terror and lunged forward, crashing right into Simon’s arms. Her hands gripped his shirt in a death grip, pulling so hard that two buttons popped off. Her hands pressed flat against the man’s chest, feeling as though she had fallen into a pool of molten lava. The searing heat instantly jolted her awake. She looked up, meeting the man’s slightly furrowed brow.
Zoe’s face flushed crimson.
"The quality of your clothes is so terrible!" she blurted out, immediately shifting the blame in a flimsy excuse.
But which of Simon’s tailored garments wasn’t worth well over six figures? They were carefully crafted by Italy’s top artisan teams, yet she made them sound worthless.
She tried to scramble up.
Simon’s broad hand landed on her lower back and pressed down. Zoe tumbled right back into his embrace. Feeling the scorching, hormone-radiating body of a mature man, she froze. Simon’s hand shifted to the nape of her neck, sending a tingling sensation through her that made her tremble slightly.
He finally glanced at the woman’s flushed face, which was inches from his. Seemingly guessing what was running through her mind, he narrowed his eyes. "Quite vindictive, aren’t you? I ruined a few of your buttons last time, and you just had to get me back for it."
Zoe, of course, could hear his light mockery. Unable to hold her tongue, she retorted, "I even let you look last time! Are you going to take yours off and let me look, too?"
The room instantly fell silent.
Zoe immediately regretted her words. This mouth of hers never wanted to lose an argument. Her mouth was always running ahead while her brain desperately tried to catch up.
Fortunately, Simon didn’t entertain her remark. Instead, he asked, "Do you have a first-aid kit?"
Zoe thought he had gotten hurt somewhere. She hurriedly got up, dug the kit out from a cabinet, and handed it to him. "Where does it hurt?"
Seeing the genuine concern that flashed across the woman’s face in that instant, Simon paused slightly. He opened the kit and looked at her. "Take it off."
Zoe stared at him in bewilderment. "...?"
Too lazy to waste time with her, Simon grabbed the woman’s wrist and pulled her forward. He tugged the collar of her sweater down, exposing her slender shoulders, neck, and arms, as well as her full, visually striking cleavage.
Startled, she gasped and instinctively moved to cover herself.
Simon hadn’t thought much of it initially, but caught off guard by such a provocative sight, his eyelashes fluttered, and his dry throat bobbed twice.
A sudden wave of grievance washed over Zoe. Whether it was the sexual harassment at work or the horrifying ordeal tonight, her emotions had reached a breaking point. Biting her lip, she spoke with a bitter, self-deprecating tone. "I was almost... today. You know that perfectly well, yet you’re still thinking about this kind of thing? Simon Hawthorne, you’re a bastard!"
Otherwise, why would he be trying to strip off her clothes?
Simon hadn’t expected her mind to jump to that conclusion. His brows instantly knitted together, a fleeting trace of impatience flashing through his eyes. His thin, slightly flushed lips pulled into a mocking sneer. "Mrs. Hawthorne, you don’t need to be so overly conceited about your beauty to think that anyone who looks at you would be overcome with animalistic lust."
He set down the antiseptic in his hand. "Apply the medicine yourself."
Zoe suddenly felt a stinging sensation on her neck. She pulled out her phone to use as a mirror. It must have been accidentally scratched by a broken beer bottle during her scuffle with the drunkard. There was a thin bloody gash just below her collarbone.
So... she had just accused a gentleman of having the mind of a scoundrel?