CHAPTER 147: CHAPTER 147: THE TRUTH IN THE CLOSET

The familiar scent of cedar enveloped her, mixed with the fresh rain, calming Holly Crowe’s heart a bit.

Blake Sinclair held a large black umbrella over her head with one hand, and tightly wrapped his other arm around her shoulders.

The corridor wasn’t actually long, but Holly Crowe had her mind elsewhere, which was why the thunder startled her.

Now, held in Blake Sinclair’s arms, she regained her composure.

Blake Sinclair shielded her as they walked out, noticing her wet shoulder where a deep stain had spread, clinging to her skin.

He slightly frowned, gently brushed rain droplets from her hair, "Are you uncomfortable? Why do you look so pale?"

Leaning against his chest, Holly Crowe felt as if something was blocking her heart, both sour and bitter.

She wanted to ask him about the tie, about his past with Shannon Yarrow, about those removed trending topics, but the words wouldn’t come out.

The seed of doubt had already taken root in her heart.

She feared the answer might cost her this embrace.

"It’s nothing," she turned her face away, avoiding his gaze, "Maybe it’s a bit cold; the AC in the exhibition hall was strong, gave me a bit of a headache."

These kinds of art gallery spaces tend to be well air-conditioned.

Without suspicion, Blake Sinclair pulled her closer, trying to disperse the chill enveloping her, "I’m sorry, I didn’t think it through, forgot to bring you a shawl."

"It’s okay."

The more considerate he was, the more Holly Crowe’s heart ached.

She suppressed her emotions and asked, "How did you get here so quickly?"

"There weren’t many cars on the road at this time."

Blake Sinclair responded casually, opening the car door for her.

But only he knew he had sped all the way, hitting a hundred.

Since noon when the driver reported that Holly Crowe had arrived at the art center, that old sense of panic surged again.

He hated this feeling of being out of control, unable to focus even while handling documents.

So, under the pretense of wanting to go pick her up due to the rain, he had come early; he didn’t know what he was rushing for all the way there, almost driven by instinct.

Only now that she was truly in his arms did Blake Sinclair’s heart finally settle a bit.

The temperature inside the car was comfortable.

Blake Sinclair used a tissue to gently wipe Holly Crowe’s rain-damp shoulder, his movements attentive and tender.

Yet Holly Crowe couldn’t enjoy this care peacefully, her gaze fell uncontrollably to the tie Blake Sinclair was wearing today.

A dark blue striped tie, simple in design, with no swallow patterns.

At this moment, a thought suddenly occurred to her.

"What’s wrong?" Blake Sinclair noticed her staring blankly, and called out to her again.

Holly Crowe shook her head, "I’m fine, I just want to go home, want to go back right now."

She just wanted to go home and verify that suspicion.

"Okay, let’s go home." He started the car, his voice gentle, "I’ll make something warm for you once we get back, help chase away the cold."

The Maybach drove into the rain.

Holly Crowe was engulfed by unknown fear.

Upon returning to The Grandflora Gardens, ingredients had already been delivered by someone.

Blake Sinclair asked Holly Crowe to change clothes first, while he went into the kitchen.

Holly Crowe went straight to Blake Sinclair’s tie storage area in the closet; she opened the drawer, inspecting tie by tie.

Solid colors, stripes, polka dots, plaids...

All sorts of styles, but conspicuously missing the one with the swallow pattern.

She was not ready to give up, knelt down to check the backup drawer under the shelf again.

As expected, it was gone.

Just as she had thought.

That morning, half asleep, she seemed to have seen Blake Sinclair leaving with a bag, and since that day, he had not worn the swallow-patterned tie.

So, what was in that bag?

Holly Crowe closed the wardrobe door and took out her phone to dial Auntie Cole, who was responsible for daily cleaning at the house.

The call was quickly connected.

"Hello?"

"Auntie Cole, it’s Holly Crowe."

"Miss Crowe?"

Auntie Cole’s voice immediately gained a hint of nervousness, "Oh dear, why did you suddenly call me? Is there something at home that wasn’t cleaned up properly?"

"It’s nothing major, Auntie Cole. It’s just that I can’t find a white dress, I thought maybe when we were sorting old clothes last week, it got accidentally mixed up and thrown away, so I wanted to ask if you saw a white dress in the trash bin the last time you cleaned in the morning?"

"A white dress?" Auntie Cole drawled, trying to remember.

"I haven’t seen it, Miss Crowe. I’m quite sure, in the past week or more, it’s mainly been daily household waste and kitchen waste in the house, no large items of clothing or such. I pay attention each time I clean."

Holly Crowe’s tense shoulders relaxed, and the breath she’d been holding finally released slowly.

"Oh, I see. Then I must have remembered wrong, or maybe it’s stuffed in some corner, I’ll search for it properly at home later. Thank you."

At this moment, she actually felt relieved in her heart.

Perhaps she really was overthinking it.

Guilt surged in her heart.

How could she be swayed by a few words from outsiders?

Just as she was about to hang up, Auntie Cole, as if wanting to prove her point again, added, "Miss Crowe, rest assured, we have formal contracts for our work, we would never do anything sneaky like taking things!"

Only then did Holly Crowe realize that this call might have created a misunderstanding with Auntie Cole, making her think she was suspicious of her.

She quickly explained, "Auntie Cole, don’t overthink it, that’s not what I meant. That dress was already sorted to be donated as old clothes to a mountainous area, so it doesn’t matter if it’s lost, I’ll search for it again, please don’t take it to heart."

Hearing this, Auntie Cole breathed a sigh of relief, her voice lightening up, "Ah, that’s good then, that’s good."

"Actually, we’re very careful each time we clean. Like last week, I saw several of Mr. Sinclair’s ties in the trash bin that looked perfectly fine, not dirty or torn at all. Later, I even picked them up specifically to ask Mr. Sinclair if they were accidentally thrown away? Such good ties, what a shame..."

Holly Crowe could hardly hear the rest.

"Auntie Cole," she interrupted, "you said you saw Blake Sinclair’s ties in the trash bin last week?"

"Yes indeed!" Auntie Cole confirmed, "There were several! Later, Mr. Sinclair told me very clearly that he didn’t need them anymore, and asked me to dispose of them, so that’s what I did. Those ties looked fine, such a shame to throw them away."

"Alright, I got it, thank you Auntie Cole, that’s all, carry on with your work." Holly Crowe hastily ended the call.

The breath she had just let out now turned into the sharpest cold stab, piercing her heart, both cold and painful.

The suspicion was confirmed.

Something inside Holly Crowe shattered.

She remembered that morning very clearly.

Wrapped in blankets, she had a secret, having finally confirmed she liked this man.

But what did he do the same morning?

Before she woke up, he calmly disposed of those ties that might have been hiding secrets.

Was he, while discarding them, grateful that the late-night trending topic was removed in time?

Was he, while putting on a new tie, thinking she was so easy to deceive, believing anything?

She was indeed easy to deceive, quite foolish.

He went out at midnight, saying he wanted to smoke, she believed him, even happy that he wanted to share secrets with her.

In the morning, he changed his tie, she merely thought he wanted a change of style, even relieved that he was no longer troubled.

He said over and over to trust him, and she really did.

Something twisted in her chest, sour and rising all the way to her throat, so bitter it was painful.

More uncomfortable than crying.