Chapter 412 No Regrets
Chapter 412 No Regrets
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Laura stared at him, stunned. This was the same man who had once greeted her persistence with indifference, who had only agreed to date her after she chased him to exhaustion–yet now he spoke with disarming carnestness.
His expression carried the weight reserved for something–someone–precious, as though her well–being sat at the center of his universe.
<i>No</i><i>, </i><i>I </i>am <i>not </i>that <i>person </i><i>to </i><i>him</i>.
After all, their rtionship was no more than a signed agreement with an expiration date.
He was simply justifying his shamelessck of remorse.
Laura’s voice iced over. “What kind of man you are is none of my business, Weston, but you have no right to make my choices for me.” She yanked, trying to free her arm.
But his fingers were unmovable iron, refusing to let her slip away.
Frustration red across her face. “I need to see Quinn at the hospital,” she said sharply. “I don’t have time for this tug–of–war.”
Weston’s gaze hardened. “Take back what you just said.”
She froze for a heartbeat,shes trembling as surprise chased across her face. “What?” she blurted, the word brittle with disbelief.
The man took a single step closer, his jaw set like granite and eyes swirling with equal parts fury and hurt. “Take that back. Whatever kind of man I am, it matters to you. Laura Wentworth, don’t forget–right now, I am your boyfriend.”
A bitterugh escaped her, soft yet slicing. “Boyfriend? We’re nothing more than-” She never finished.
Weston’s voice cracked like a whip as he pinned her in ce with a stare hot enough to scorch. “Laura Wentworth! Some words should never be spoken. If you insist on testing me, I can’t promise what I might do.”
The rebuke punched the air from her lungs. She faltered, the rest of her protest shriveling at the back of her throat.
Weston drew a steadying breath, his voice low but unyielding: “You’re angry–so we’ll cool off. I’lle back for you in a few days.” He released her wrist, turned, and walked away without
<b>17:26 </b><b>Fri</b><b>, </b><b>Sep </b>19 B
Chapter 412 No Regrets
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another nce, leaving the hallway echoing in his absence.
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Laura shook out the arm he had squeezed, a bloom of red fingerprints already rising on her skin. <i>B</i><i>*</i><i>stard</i>. <i>All </i><i>that </i><i>polished </i><i>charm </i>and <i>gentlemanly </i><i>grace</i>–<i>nothing </i><i>but </i><i>a </i><i>costume</i>. <i>Underneath</i>, he’s <i>nothing </i><i>but </i><i>arrogant </i>and <i>domineering</i><i>. </i>
Later that afternoon, Laura pushed through the antiseptic–scented corridors of the hospital. When she stepped into Quinn Bridger’s private room, she found Fabian–Julius‘ discreet personal secretary–standing by the window, a tan envelope poised in his gloved hands.
Fabian inclined his head, the gesture crisp enough to slice the tension. “Ms. Bridger, Mr. Whitethorn asked me topile background information on Serena Fane. He believes it may be of use to you, so he instructed me to deliver it personally.”
Quinn, her left arm still in a sling, lifted her chin. “And him? Where is he now?”
Fabian’s smile remained polite and unbroken. “I’m afraid I cannot share his whereabouts without authorization. However, he asked me to convey that your injuries stem from matters involving the Whitethorn family, and therefore, the family willpensate you.”
The statement caught Quinn mid–breath. “Compensation from the Whitethorns?” Her voice tilted in quiet disbelief.
Fabian nodded once. “Yes. The fire was orchestrated by Mr. Whitethorn’s father, Mr. Joaquin Whitethorn. Here is the proposedpensation list. Please review it, and if you have any additional requests, do not hesitate to let us know.”
With that, he extended a second document, the crisp pages fanning like cards in a magician’s hand.
Quinn didn’t even lower her gaze to the paperwork. “I don’t need their money. I need to see him.”
Fabian’s brows knitted with sincere regret. “I’m sorry–this is beyond my authority. But I will ry your request to Mr. Whitethorn.”
Quinn’s forehead creased. “So he doesn’t want to see me?”
Fabian hesitated, his gaze flickering. “Mr. Whitethorn only wishes for your safety.”
Quinn drew a steady breath, resolve igniting in her eyes. “Then please tell him this: I want to be with him again.”
The words seemed to stun Fabian; his pupils darted before settling. “Understood, Ms. Bridger. I will convey your message without fail.”
<b>17:26 </b>Fri, <b>Sep </b><b>19 </b>B.
Chapter 412 No Regrets
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She offered no furtherment, the ward growing hushed save for the rhythmic hiss of her IV drip.
The rest, she resolved, would be spoken to Julius in person.
Once Fabian departed, Laura sidled up beside the bed and snatched the abandoned list, curiosity gleaming in her eyes.
“Wow!” she gasped after a quick scan. “Good grief, this isn’tpensation–it’s practically a dowry.”
Quinn’s brow knit as she took the paperwork from Laura’s hand. A single nce told the story: sports cars, vis by the sea, a penthouse downtown, jewelry fit for royalty, even controlling shares in several Whitethorn tech subsidiaries.
If she signed at the bottom, every one of those fortune–sized line items would legally bear her
name.
Yet the more generous the list looked, the heavier the unease pressing against her ribs, as though Julius intended to sever thest thread between them.
He had not appeared once since she woke in this hospital bed. <i>Is </i><i>he </i><i>truly </i><i>preparing </i><i>to </i>walk <i>away</i><i>? </i><i>That </i><i>can’t </i><i>be</i><i>. </i><i>Julius </i><i>had </i><i>risked </i><i>his </i><i>life </i><i>in </i><i>the </i><i>ze </i><i>to </i><i>drag </i><i>me </i><i>out</i><i>, </i><i>had </i><i>shielded </i><i>me </i><i>from </i><i>falling </i><i>masonry</i>. <i>So why </i><i>would </i><i>he </i><i>refuse </i><i>to </i><i>see </i><i>me </i><i>now</i>?
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The questions buzzed like insects, but for the moment, all she could do was wait for Fabian to deliver her message.
“By the way–where’s your brother?” Laura asked, ncing around the room as though Rowan might materialize behind the curtain. She had grown used to finding him stationed at Quinn’s bedside like a silent sentinel.
Most days, anyone walking into the ward could count on seeing Rowan there, coffee in hand, grim resolve stamped across his features.
Quinn exhaled slowly. “He drove to the police station–he’s trying to post bail for Serena Fane.”