CHAPTER 84: CHAPTER 84: I CAN CALL THE POLICE

The shirt was quickly undone by him and casually thrown aside.

Poppy Hale glanced at the piece of clothing.

"Do you want me to wash it for you?"

"No need. Let’s take care of the important things first."

Originally, the draft assignment was indeed considered an important matter.

But at this moment, he removed the top half of his clothes, exposing his strong chest.

He still wore pants on the lower half, but it wasn’t much better than last time.

Poppy Hale suspected that if he stood up, his pants would fall off.

She coughed to alleviate the slight awkwardness in her heart.

Setting up the drawing board, she placed the paper on it.

Poppy Hale actually hadn’t done hand-drawn art in a long time, almost always using digital drawing.

Fortunately, her sense of touch remained.

After sketching a basic outline, Poppy Hale glanced at Declan Hawthorne sitting there.

He seemed to remain still, his gaze entirely fixed on her.

"You can play with your phone; you don’t need to keep the same posture the whole time; it’ll be tiring."

Declan Hawthorne shook his head, "If you’re worried about me being tired, you can talk to me instead."

In all honesty,

Poppy Hale didn’t think there was anything she must discuss with Declan Hawthorne.

But today, there happened to be one thing.

"When did you meet my dad?"

The man wasn’t playing with his phone.

He was fiddling with a lighter, flicking it open and shut.

The flickering flame lit a smile on his face as if reflected by firelight.

"I forgot."

Poppy Hale stopped sketching and looked up at him.

"Are you doing this on purpose?"

The room wasn’t large; Declan Hawthorne was sitting not far in front of Poppy Hale.

He shifted slightly.

The lighter was set aside, and his fingers tapped Poppy Hale’s knee.

That teasing and light laughter slid into Poppy Hale’s ears.

"If you can forget, why can’t I?"

He was referring to when he asked her in the car why she never got angry with him before, and she said she forgot.

At that moment, Poppy Hale was utterly certain.

Declan Hawthorne was retaliating against her.

Poppy Hale suddenly realized.

She didn’t really want to know when Declan Hawthorne had met Mr. Hale anymore.

She turned away and stopped speaking.

A rough sketch quickly appeared on the paper.

Declan Hawthorne watched Poppy Hale before him.

Her hair was tied up, with a few strands too short to stay in place, falling across her collarbone, sweeping back and forth.

She was seriously focused on the canvas.

Every now and then, she glanced over to confirm some details.

That familiar sourness in his heart emerged from the dark crevices, like countless shadowy tentacles pulling someone under the sea.

Back then, Mason Rivers saw this version of her.

It seemed he missed more than just this side of Poppy Hale.

His eyes moved downward.

Possibly to avoid dirtying her clothes while drawing, she changed into a gray dress, low-cut and not very long, just above the knee.

There was a small bruise on her knee.

The man’s hand covered the bruise, his large palm rubbing over it.

Poppy Hale looked down to see him lift her leg onto his lap, kneading the bruise.

It must have been where Leo Hollis had bumped her during the day; her fair skin reacted easily, turning scarred with just a little pressure.

However, Declan Hawthorne was much taller.

Because of this, her leg was slightly raised, causing her skirt to slide down.

His eyes seemed to be straying beneath her skirt.

Poppy Hale wanted to pull her leg back and tug her skirt down.

But Declan Hawthorne’s hand was like a vice, preventing her from moving.

"Try moving again?"

His tone carried an indistinct hint of a warning.

Feeling his hand threaten to move further up her thigh, Poppy Hale dare not move.

She knew him well.

Now, his eyes, tone, and the growing warmth of his palm all revealed his intentions.

Declan Hawthorne was holding one of her legs, his palm gliding over her smooth skin, but never leaving the bruise.

"How about we trade?"

If she answered his question, he’d answer hers.

Poppy Hale’s voice was soft, almost murmuring: "What if I say no?"

His hand, tracing along the hem of her skirt, had already given his answer.

She reached out to press his hand down.

Poppy Hale wasn’t aware, her face had turned red, and the orange-toned light made the blush on her face resemble the bubbles in orange soda.

This sent him over the edge.

"I-I can call the police."

Declan Hawthorne leaned closer to her face.

"Oh, very impressive. Want me to applaud you?"

"I mean it."

Declan Hawthorne murmured an acknowledgment, "What would you report? That you don’t know me, or that I’m about to do something to you?"

Despite the raw look in his eyes and the movement in his throat, he made no further move.

Poppy Hale pushed his face away.

Holding the paintbrush, she continued sketching.

"In the past... I was afraid you’d find out I had a bad temper and hate me."

The earlier romantic and ambiguous bubbles were all burst by her words.

She didn’t care that Declan Hawthorne was still right in front of her.

Being close actually made it easier to observe the details she needed to outline.

"I was afraid you wouldn’t like me, hate me, and break up with me. President Hawthorne, do you understand?"

This sentence carried a hint of temper.

Declan Hawthorne stared at her.

Their eyes met, and in hers, he saw calmness.

His own emotions went from a blazing inferno to tranquility.

After a while,

He released her leg only after the bruise had been massaged out.

"In junior year, your roommate, today’s bride, approached me."

He couldn’t quite recall Stella Hollis’s name, just that she was Poppy Hale’s roommate.

"She claimed you were kept by an old man."

She suggested Poppy Hale wasn’t some respectable heiress but living off an old man’s money to flaunt wealth, also keeping Declan Hawthorne.

Encouraging Declan Hawthorne to break up with her.

It was then that Declan Hawthorne noticed Mr. Hale buying bubble tea for Poppy Hale at a tea shop.

He left after just one glance.

He hadn’t greeted him, but he didn’t believe what was said about Poppy Hale being kept.

If he had known earlier that he was Poppy Hale’s father, he wouldn’t have been so dismissive.

Poppy Hale frowned slightly.

"Stella approached you?"

"Many times."

Stella was someone who used all means to climb up, like a parasitic vine tangled on a tree; once it entwined you, it wouldn’t let go until you were drained.

Poppy Hale forced a smile, devoid of warmth.

"She’s a perfect match for my brother. They should grow old together."

Declan Hawthorne caught on to her mood, "You don’t get along well with your brother?"

"No, on the contrary, he is impeccable as a brother. But people are complex; he isn’t only my brother, he’s also a father, a husband."

Stepping away from those social ties, she couldn’t manage Sean Lynch’s other affairs.

Halfway done, only coloring remained.

Poppy Hale put away the drawing board.

"You don’t need to be bothered after this. I’ll show it to you when it’s completed."

Her words carried an implicit invitation to leave.

Declan Hawthorne nodded, not putting on his shirt. He tightened his pants and, after picking up Iris Quill in the next room, took his leave.

Only after he left did Poppy Hale heave a sigh of relief.

She looked down at her knee.

While the bruise was gone, a lot of red finger marks replaced it.

-

He didn’t return to the next room.

Declan Hawthorne drove Iris Quill back to the Hawthorne Family, then called Allen Shaw, heading to a bar.

When Allen Shaw arrived, several empty bottles lay scattered around Declan Hawthorne.

He raised a bottle, drinking as the alcohol trickled down his neck.

Allen Shaw approached.

"Why the sudden need to drink so much?"

It was evident that Declan Hawthorne wasn’t in high spirits.

Allen Shaw didn’t pry further, choosing to drink along with him.

As hours passed, Declan Hawthorne’s mind was awash in alcohol, yet he felt starkly lucid.

He pulled out his phone from his bag and dialed a number.