?Chapter 1559:


    After watching Jazlyn leave, Marc received the flight alert on his phone. He showered and finally sank into a heavy sleep.


    At dawn the next day, he arrived at the studio. Design drafts were stacked everywhere. He slipped the materials he had secured into a storage cab, and as he straightened, a knock sounded at his office door. He stiffened immediately and stepped in front of the cab without thinking.


    A young woman’s voice came from outside, clear and calm. “Mr. Walsh, it is Livia.”


    Livia. He frowned, the name ringing only faintly familiar. She had joined the studio recently — she had talent and a clean, pleasant look — but his attention these days had been consumed entirely by Ste. He had hardly noticed anyone else.


    The door opened. Livia stepped in wearing a simple dress and a knitted cardigan, a mild smile resting on her face.


    “What is it?” Marc answered evenly, his expression giving nothing away.


    She moved inside and began gathering the scattered sketches with practiced ease. “Nothing urgent. I wanted to let you know the nning department finished the proposal. It needs your signature.”


    nning matters belonged to that department. She was a designer, not his assistant, and this was not her responsibility. Still, he gave a short nod. “Noted. Anything else?” The meaning was clear — if there was nothing more, she should leave.


    She had not expected the cold response. A flicker of difort crossed her face, but remembering Jazlyn’s words, she pressed on. “Mr. Walsh, you look exhausted. Have you been overworking, or are you unwell?”


    Her gaze rested on him — soft, bright, her concern openly disyed.


    He had seen that look many times before and recognized the admiration behind it. Once, it might have amused him. Now, his thoughts held only Ste. Livia was a newly graduated designer with no influence or backing. Aside from being young, she offered no real advantage. There was no possibility he would ever think of her in any other way.


    He waved a restless hand. “I am fine. Thank you for asking. You may leave.”


    She stayed where she was, then stepped closer and spoke gently. “Mr. Walsh, you have been frowning the entire time. I know some massage techniques. Let me help you rx — it might make you feel better.”


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    Before he had the chance to refuse, her pale, slender fingers settled lightly against his temples. The cool contact sent a faint shiver through him. Her touch was controlled, kneading slowly with measured pressure, and his instinct was to push her away.


    Yet the constant mental tension he had been carrying for days began to loosen under her hands. As the relief spread, he closed his eyes and did not stop her. Her technique was clearly practiced — the pressure steady and well ced. Little by little, his nerves unwound, and his thoughts drifted into a dull haze.


    A light, pleasant scent surrounded him as her fingers moved. Time passed unnoticed, and his body sank fully into rxation, his eyelids growing too heavy to lift. He vaguely registered her voice near his ear, guiding him gently toward the sofa, a thin nket draped over him. He wanted to tell her to go, but no sound came.


    Just before consciousness slipped away entirely, he felt her fingers graze his chest, her scent still lingering around him. After that, everything faded.


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