Chapter 2

The blood drained from Laurelle's face, and the light in her eyes faced. Indeed. After those three torturous years, Laurelle should've gotten that into her head. They drove into a tunnel. Maverick's face was alternatively illuminated and shrouded in darkness. He was just like he'd been back then—cold and distant. Laurelle shoved her bitterness to the back of her head and asked insistently, "Mave … were you the one who hired them to beat me up?" She'd suffered multiple mental breakdowns, and they'd driven her to the brink of death more than once. However, she couldn't make herself let Maverick go. She'd even been afraid Maverick wouldn't get on well enough without her. She refused to believe he had the heart to treat her like that. However, when their eyes met, Maverick asked dispassionately, "What kind of answer do you want to hear?" Laurelle froze. Then, her lips tugged upward in a bitter smile. Was that response an admission of what he'd done? In his eyes, Laurelle had gotten jealous of Bianca and hired people to kidnap her, which had nearly resulted in her being gang raped. Yet, the evidence had been water-tight. Laurelle couldn't prove her innocence. If anything, the only person who could be blamed for this was Bianca. After all, she had been daring enough to put herself on the line. She had indeed won this gamble. Ha! Laurelle felt like the love she'd harbored for Maverick over seven years was nothing more than a joke. Her eyes were out of focus, and they remained this way until the car rolled to a stop before the house they would move into after getting married. Laurelle had personally overseen the interior design of their home, from the material they used in the walls to the position of a flower pot. She'd spent weeks dreaming about their shared life together here. Yet, Bianca's stuff was now strewn across their house. Laurelle felt as though a thousand arrows had pierced through her heart. Her lips were chapped and pale. Way to hit a woman at her worst. Maverick hadn't picked up on how Laurelle had been feeling. He said to the household staff member, "She's too dirty. Clean her up." The household staff member nodded and led her to the bathroom. Once they entered, she put her hands over her nose, unsure of how to proceed. In the end, she couldn't stop herself from saying, "Ms. Fletcher, what was the last time you took a shower? You're a woman. Don't you have any concept of personal hygiene?" Laurelle was only 24. Did they think she didn't want to be squeaky clean too? Laurelle said nothing and asked the household staff member to leave. Then, she locked herself in the bathroom and took an hour-long shower. She had wounds all over her after three years of "special treatment". Although those people had stopped beating her up in the last month, the old wounds wouldn't heal. Beneath where others couldn't see, bruises spread in quiet layers, deepening one upon another. Some of them were from scratches; others were from kicks. Some were even the result of weapons. She couldn't gain access to medication in jail, so some of the wounds had become infected. Among them, the most serious one was the long scar down her left leg. A year had passed. Yet, it still hurt when it rained. It had probably left a permanent mark on her. It was fine. She could recover eventually. This was how she consoled herself whenever the pain became unbearable. The household staff had prepared some clothes for her. She put them on numbly. Surprisingly, they fit her like a glove. She hadn't expected to run into Maverick upon opening the door. He wrapped an arm around her waist on reflex. Laurelle was stunned for a second. Then, her face was pressed flush against his chest. The hug startled both parties. The smell of nicotine clung to Maverick. His linen shirt was crumpled in her hands. When she realized what had happened, she pulled away as her heart pounded. After getting to a safe distance, she said, "My apologies, Mr. Gray. I didn't do that on purpose." She caught the cigarette in his hands out of the corner of her eye and assumed that he'd passed by while heading out to smoke. "What did you call me?" His eyes flashed coldly while narrowing his eyes at her. He said, "Mr. Gray? Laurelle, what are you playing at?" Laurelle pursed her lips and looked down as her eyes turned red. Before someone who didn't love her, everything she did was wrong. The tips of his fingers still tingled with her warmth. His eyes turned dark, and he put the cigarette between his lips, unwilling to admit that how she'd pulled away had left him feeling empty. This feeling intensified when he noticed her red-rimmed eyes… An instinct stirred within him, compelling him to act. Maverick lit the cigarette. His Adam's apple bobbed, and he shoved the desire down. He mocked, "Who would've thought? Your skills of seduction have improved after your three years in jail. Are you that desperate for it?"