Amanda spent the rest of the day in the master bedroom, her gaze fixed on the vibrant red roses outside.
Quentin had left before noon. She didn't complain; she knew her coldness earlier that morning had likely driven him away. In a way, she was relieved. She didn't know how to look at him without seeing the ghosts of her past, and his absence spared her from having to fake a smile. Javier was truly a disaster—even in his absence, he managed to haunt every corner of her new life.
Exhausted by her own thoughts, Amanda skipped dinner, showered, and collapsed onto the bed. She fell into a deep, dreamless sleep, only to be jolted awake hours later by a sudden wave of heat.
It felt as though a furnace had been placed beside her.
She blinked her eyes open in the dim light. A man was lying next to her, his posture orderly and calm. But it was his gaze that made her breath hitch. He was looking at her with a tenderness so profound it was almost painful—a look that seemed to want to swallow her whole.
"Quentin!" Amanda gasped, startled. She tried to sit up, but a firm hand pressed gently against her shoulder.
"Did I wake you?" His voice was deep, hoarse, and carried the faint, sharp scent of sandalwood and expensive alcohol.
Amanda frowned slightly, scooting away to create some distance. "A little. Have you been drinking?"
Quentin noticed her retreat. His eyes darkened almost imperceptibly as he rolled onto his back, respecting the space she demanded. "A little. Do you dislike the smell?"
"I do," she admitted.
A heavy silence fell between them. They lay there, two strangers bound by a red booklet, staring at the ceiling. Finally, Amanda broke the quiet.
"I'm returning to the film set tomorrow. I'll probably be gone for a week... maybe a month."
It was a lie. She wasn't due back for another two days, but the walls of this villa felt like they were closing in on her.
"I'll come visit you when I have a free moment," Quentin replied, his voice a low rumble in the dark.
Amanda's brow furrowed. "I don't want the marriage to be public, Quentin. It'll ruin my image."
"I know," he said simply. "I'll visit as an investor."
Amanda realized there was no point in arguing with a man who could buy the entire production company on a whim. "Whatever. I'm going back to sleep."
She turned her back to him, closing her eyes. She wasn't used to the weight of another person in the bed, but she forced herself to stay still. Eventually, her breathing evened out.
Once he was sure she was sound asleep, Quentin gently reached out and turned her toward him. Amanda huffed in her sleep, kicking the blanket off with a disgruntled mumble, but she didn't wake.
Quentin's lips curled into a faint smile. Diego had mentioned she was a "blanket-kicker." He tucked the covers back around her, slid his arm beneath her neck, and pulled her into his chest. Amanda stirred, subconsciously seeking his warmth, and rubbed her face against his chest twice before settling into a deep slumber. Quentin leaned down, pressed a lingering kiss to her forehead, and finally closed his eyes.
The next morning, Amanda woke to an empty bed. She packed her bags in a hurry, eager to leave before the sun was fully up. She tried to slip out without breakfast, but Butler Wayne intercepted her at the stairs.
"Miss Amanda, please have breakfast before you go. The Young Master is already waiting for you in the dining room."
Amanda bit her lip. Seeing the butler's genuine concern, she sighed and changed direction toward the kitchen. "I thought he'd already left for the office."
Butler Wayne followed her, looking pleased. "Oh no, Master Quentin always eats breakfast at home before work. It's his strictest rule."
Amanda stopped in her tracks. "Always? He never eats out?"
"Never," the butler confirmed firmly.
Amanda's eye twitched. Then who was the man munching on street dumplings in a Bentley three days ago? When she entered the dining room, Quentin was already there, impeccably dressed in a charcoal suit, sipping coffee. He looked up and offered a soft smile. "You're up."
Amanda nodded stiffly and sat down. A servant placed a bowl of savory beef oatmeal in front of her. It was delicious—better than anything she'd had in years—and she found herself eating with more gusto than she intended.
Her phone vibrated. It was Vance Walters, her manager. "I'm at the gate," he said.
"I'll be right out," Amanda replied.
"Butler Wayne," Quentin interjected smoothly, not looking up from his coffee. "Please invite Mr. Walters and his assistant inside."
Before Amanda could object, the butler was gone. She shot Quentin a look of annoyance, then spoke into the phone. "Someone is coming to get you. Just come inside."
A few minutes later, Vance walked in, followed by Winter, Amanda's young assistant. Winter was staring at Quentin with wide, saucer-like eyes.
"Good morning, Mr. Harris," Vance said, his tone perfectly professional.
Amanda stood up immediately. "I'm ready. We should go. You keep eating," she added to Quentin.
Quentin set down his fork and nodded. "Go ahead."
As they turned to leave, Winter lingered for a second, her gaze darting between Amanda and Quentin. Vance had to practically drag her by the arm.
"Keep your mouth shut," Vance hissed the moment they were out of earshot.
"Mr. Vance!" Winter whispered frantically. "That's him! That's the man who saved Ms. Amanda at the hotel that night! I recognize him!"
Vance froze, then looked back at the house. He turned toward the dining room window and gave Quentin a respectful nod. "We'll be taking our leave now, Mr. Harris."
Quentin watched them through the glass, his expression unreadable. "Take care of her," he instructed, his voice carrying clearly through the open terrace door.
Vance nodded. "Always, sir."