Whispers of Destiny: His Belated Love

Maxwell had Rosemary in a grip that was a bit too tight, causing her pain. She tried to turn her head to dodge, but how could she possibly match a man's strength?

Seeing her silent, Maxwell leaned in, his eyes roiling with anger that he forcefully suppressed. From his expression alone, she couldn't tell there was a firestorm brewing inside him.

In fact, his voice was even softer than usual. Closing in on Rosemary, he said slowly and with restraint, "What's this Fitch guy that you need to go asking strangers for help? Is the Mrs. Templeton title not cutting it for you, or are you just too high and mighty to use it?"

"Maxwell, you're hurting me," Rosemary tried to wriggle out of his vice-like grip to no avail. After a few attempts, the skin under his calloused fingertips was burning with pain, making her wonder if it was broken.

She frowned in irritation, "We're getting divorced anyway; who I ask for help is none of your business!"

"Divorce? Are you for real? Just half a month ago, you stripped down and seduced me, saying you wanted to spend a lifetime with me."

Things that were playful in bed turned into a glaring shame when brought into the open.

It felt like Rosemary had been slapped hard across the face, her complexion drained of color, but she didn't show any weakness in front of this man. Instead, she provocatively curled her lips into a smirk, "Yeah, considering you've been acting all uninterested for the past three years, I had to make sure you still had it in you for the sake of my future happiness. Good thing I did, it helped me make up my mind that divorce was the only option."

Maxwell's grip tightened as he said, "Wasn't that pre-wedding romp enough to satisfy you?"

"That time the drink was spiked. I used a hefty dose just to make sure, and now it's proven you're really hopeless without the drugs."

Rosemary was genuinely tipsy, Maxwell's face in front of her blurring, indistinct even in features, let alone expression. Text © owned by NôvelDrama.Org.

She heard herself spitting out words, responding subconsciously without knowing exactly what she was saying.

And Maxwell, with that nerve in his brain stretched taut, felt his anger burning brighter, almost hissing, "Rosemary, you've really got some nerve!"

He opened the car door, dragged the slumped Rosemary out, and headed straight for the elevator to the Night Club hotel at higher floor where he had a private suite due to being the boss of the place.

The elevator stopped on the 24th floor, his territory that required a fingerprint to access. Maxwell hauled Rosemary into the room and unceremoniously dumped her on the bed.

Looking down at the curled-up, drowsy woman, his expressionless face grew even darker. He methodically removed his suit jacket and unbuttoned his shirt, revealing tight, toned muscles.

Even in moments like this, the scion of a noble family retained his elegance, without a hint of rushing. Maxwell hadn't planned on doing anything to Rosemary, but she was asking for it!

Meanwhile, Rosemary, dragged along like a sack of potatoes, felt dizzy and nauseous, wanting to throw up but lacking any strength to do so.

She felt a sharp pain on both sides of her face; at the thought of Maxwell's earlier violence, tears of grievance began streaming down. People tend to be more vulnerable in these moments, easily recalling those they would rather not think of when sober.

Maxwell saw her cry, his heart softening slightly. He leaned over to pick her up for a bath, but then Rosemary murmured, "Martin."

The atmosphere in the room turned oppressively tense with that single name, like a spark ready to ignite an explosion.

Maxwell, with deep eyes, eventually asked, "What did you just say?"

His voice was indifferent, not harsh, but those who knew him understood that this Maxwell was even more terrifying than one in a rage.

Rosemary kept her eyes closed, silent, as if asleep, and indeed she was. Clasping her chin, Maxwell shook her awake forcefully, "Rosemary, who did you just call for?"

Confused and groggily waking up, she looked at him with tear-filled eyes, her voice hoarse, "Martin, I should have listened to you, not to marry Maxwell. I regret it, so much regret."

Maxwell's gaze fell upon Rosemary, unfathomable, "Regret?"

No response. The silence of the room was broken only by the woman's low sobbing; whether from pain or sorrow, it was unclear.

His hand stroked her slender waist with a heavy touch, turning the skin red wherever it moved, "You've had no regrets for three years, and now that Martin is back, you're full of them?"

Stung by the pain from the body sobered her a bit, but she still felt dizzy. It took a while for Rosemary to realize who the man before her was, and she quickly furrowed her brows and tried to move away, "Maxwell, don't touch me."

Maxwell's barely restrained fury was now completely unleashed by her words. Ignoring her resistance, he grabbed her ankles, dragged her over, and pinned her beneath him, "Don't want me

to touch you? Planning on having someone else? Martin? Or that guy you gave the gift to?"

"Rosemary, you've really made something of yourself, using my money to keep a man. If you're going to do that, at least pick someone decent." His fingers traced her cheek, down her neck, belittling her with each word, "If you'd been this eager from the start, maybe I would've taken you long ago, instead of being uninterested even when you stripped and threw yourself at me."

Maxwell leaned in close to her lips, his voice laced with malicious mockery, not softened by the proximity, "That guy's over forty, right? You've been lonely for three years; does he still satisfy you in bed?"

Rosemary's lips moved as if to say something, but it was too faint for the furious man to hear. Her face crinkled in discomfort, she turned her head away, but Maxwell emotionlessly turned her face back toward him, "What? Don't want to see me? Or did I hit a nerve."

At that moment, Rosemary couldn't hold back any longer, vomiting all over Maxwell.