Marguerite fumbled with her seatbelt. She was confused.


    Frederick, it seemed, didn’t dislike her as much as she had imagined.


    A small thrill of victory zipped through her as she pondered this.


    But then, as if on cue, fat snowkes began to flutter down from the sky, quickly nketing the streets and bringing traffic to a standstill, trapping the two of them on the road.


    Marguerite had dashed out in such a rush that she only threw a peacoat over her usual dress, she didn’t even put on socks.


    She felt a chill creeping in, her hands, now rosy with the cold, rubbed together for warmth.


    Then came the “click” of a button being pressed, and the next thing she knew, a wave of warm air enveloped her. Suddenly, her heart felt a touch warmer, and she turned to the man beside her to ask, “Are you cold, too?”


    “Mhm.” Frederick’s reply was terse, his gaze fixed on the road ahead, a picture of icy detachment.


    Yet, the next moment, his eyes inadvertently flicked towards Marguerite’s exposed ankles, just beyond her boots, and his expression tightened ever so slightly.


    In truth, Marguerite wanted to ask if Frederick had turned on the heat just for her, but his response made her feel like she was reading too much into it.


    Still, her mood lifted, and even the snowy scene outside seemed more enchanting.


    She was secretly grateful for the blizzard that had stranded them together, cocooned in the tight space of the car, making Frederick seem so much more within reach.


    She was fully aware it was an illusion, but she couldn’t help wanting it tost a little longer.


    However, wishes often go ungranted, and Maurice Winston’s ill-timed call came through.


    Before this, Maurice had been sending Marguerite a bunch of messages, all of which she had purposefully ignored.


    But now the ringing phone shattered the rare peace inside the car, forcing her to pick up.


    “Where the hell are you? When are youing back?” Maurice’s irritable voice was unmistakable, even through the phone screen.


    “What’s it to you where I am?”


    “Marguerite, what the hell are you ying at? I know you’re with Frederick! Get back here now!”


    Marguerite nced at Frederick, who had started the engine, and only then realized that the traffic had begun to clear.


    “Got it. I’ll be right there.” Marguerite hung up, frustrationcing her tone.


    Frederick didn’t ask who had called, and she didn’t feel like exining.


    But then Marguerite noticed that Frederick didn’t seem to be taking her home. Instead, he took a turn at the next junction, heading in the opposite direction of the Winston Mansion.


    Marguerite was puzzled. “Aren’t we going back?”


    Frederick caught her gaze, his eyes deep and unreadable. “Dinner first.”


    Without thinking, Marguerite blurted out a suggestion. “How about the Bluebell Bistro?”


    It was the ce where Frederick had intended to confess his feelings to her three years ago, and she wanted to revisit that memory.


    Surprise flickered across his face. On one hand, his decision not to take her home didn’t seem to bother her. On the other, why was she so eager to go to Bluebell Bistro? He wasn’t particrly keen, as the ce held memories he’d rather forget.


    Despite his reluctance, Frederick found himself pulling up to the Bluebell Bistro.


    They seated themselves on the terrace, just as they had before, overlooking the snow-covered city.


    The waiter closed the windows against the chill and passed Frederick the menu.


    He handed it directly to Marguerite without looking, “You insisted oning here, so you pick.”


    Marguerite flipped through the menu listlessly, then looked up with a faint smile.


    “You own the ce, so why don’t you rmend some of your favorites?”


    Years earlier, their falling-out had cut short his confession, and in response, he’d bought the restaurant to remind himself of his folly.


    Indeed, Frederick was the owner of Bluebell Bistro, but he had never mentioned it to Marguerite !


    How could she know?


    His eyes shed with shock, fixated on Marguerite, who now wore a knowing smirk.


    “The one who bought this ce was you, right? Do you remember the menu from the day you were going to confess your feelings to me three years ago? Whatever you wanted to treat me to that day, that’s what I’ll have today!”