?Chapter 1225:


    “Stel,” he murmured, his voice low and rough,ced with something intimate—almost dangerous.


    He didn’t need to say more. His eyes spoke everything his lips didn’t.


    Her heartbeat stumbled. That strange resistance surged again—fierce, instinctive.


    The closer he drew, the tighter her chest felt. It wasn’t fear, not exactly. It was something deeper, something her body recognized even if her heart refused to.


    Her fingers tightened around the towel in her hand. She forced a smile, but her lips trembled.


    “Marc, I… walked a lot today. I’m really tired. My head’s hurting a little too.”


    Her eyes dropped, afraid to meet his. “Can we… maybe another time? When I feel better.”


    Marc’s outstretched hand froze midair. For a long moment, he said nothing.


    Then, slowly, the warmth faded from his expression, reced by something cool, measured, unreadable.


    Once could be shyness.


    But twice?


    Alone, behind closed doors?


    No. This was rejection.


    The silence stretched, sharp and suffocating.


    Then Marc’s lips curved again, his mask perfectly in ce.


    “Of course,” he said gently. “Your healthes first. I was too impatient. Rest well, Ste.”


    She nodded quickly, almost fleeing into her bedroom, closing the door between them.


    Marc stood there, motionless. The softness in his eyes vanishedpletely. His fingers curled into fists at his sides, the faintest tremor running through him.


    Back in her room, Stey sprawled across the bed, her eyes squeezed shut as guilt gnawed at her chest.


    Why was she like this? Marc had been nothing but patient and devoted. Their wedding was only days away. And yet every time his hand brushed her skin, every time he tried to kiss her, her body stiffened in silent rejection.


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    It wasn’t fear. It wasn’t disgust. It was something deeper—an instinct she couldn’t exin, a resistance that seemed toe from her very soul.


    The room was dark, the air thick with silence. Then, as if summoned by her thoughts, that shadowed figure appeared again—standing by her window, motionless, his outline half-hidden in the moonlight, watching her.


    She shook her head hard, trying to drive the illusion away.


    No one was there—only the curtain, fluttering in the night breeze.


    She pressed her palms to her temples, shaking her head again. “Stop it,” she whispered to herself. “You’re just tired. You’re overthinking again.”


    Marc loved her. She couldn’t keep disappointing him. She couldn’t let these foolish illusions take root again.


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