CHAPTER 20: CHAPTER 20: GOOD NIGHT, HOLLY CROWE.

Two simple words carried a tone that brooked no refusal.

Holly had no choice but to bend down and take a seat.

The cool evening breeze swept through, lifting her hair and brushing against Blake Sinclair’s wrist, only to vanish quickly.

The touch in that moment was so light it felt like an illusion.

Blake Sinclair’s Adam’s apple moved slightly, and the fingers resting on the door handle gently tightened.

Without a word, he closed the door and moved around to the driver’s seat.

"Do you want Chinese or Western food?" He asked, resting one hand on the steering wheel.

"Either is fine," Holly said.

"Then I’ll decide?"

"Okay."

The engine roared to life.

The rearview mirror’s frame cropped the sunset into a flowing golden-pink painting.

....

Inside the Maybach, the air was nearly frozen in silence.

Holly turned her head to gaze out the window, her fingertips unconsciously rubbing the seatbelt; it was as if she could hear her own heartbeat.

A bit awkward.

The light changed from green to red, and the car came to a stop.

Finally, Holly couldn’t resist breaking the silence and, after mulling it over, found a topic: "President Sinclair, Shirley’s ceramics should be ready in half a month."

Blake Sinclair’s fingers gently tapped the steering wheel, his voice low: "Good."

Such a cold and indifferent word.

What a conversation stopper.

Holly quietly dug her palm.

"Um..."

Just as she was about to find another topic, Blake Sinclair suddenly spoke: "Miss Crowe, am I that frightening?"

"Huh?" Holly was taken aback and turned to look at him.

Blake Sinclair suddenly turned to look at her, an undercurrent rippling beneath his lenses: "If there’s anything that makes you uncomfortable, you can tell me."

Caught off guard, Holly quickly waved her hand: "No, no, not at all."

Blake Sinclair’s lips curled imperceptibly, and he lightly tapped the steering wheel: "That’s good."

He raised his hand to press the music play button, "Want to listen to music?"

"Sure."

A Cantonese female voice began to flow out, "The heartless meet the lonely child, temporarily getting through the rocky path...."

The green light turned on, and the Maybach rejoined the traffic flow.

The music took away some of the tense air.

Holly quietly let out a breath, relaxed a bit, and then realized that Blake Sinclair must have noticed her unease earlier, and that’s why he said those words to take care of her emotions.

This man was terrifyingly meticulous.

The Maybach turned at the intersection.

Watching the streetscape slowly recede outside the window, Holly asked, "Is this the way to Aethel Street?"

"Yes."

Blake Sinclair looked straight ahead, paused for a moment, "A friend just opened a restaurant."

His tone was calm, but Holly still caught that momentary hesitation in his words.

Until the car stopped, and she saw the sign, did she understand why he hesitated earlier.

The sign gleamed with golden letters, artistically crafted:

The Upton Refectory.

Beneath the flying eaves was a vermilion door, flanked by two gilded mythical beasts.

This name...

This style...

Is truly... unique.

"Mr. Sinclair." A manager in a black uniform approached quickly, respectfully saying, "Why didn’t you tell us ahead of time you were coming?"

Blake Sinclair’s expression was indifferent: "A spur-of-the-moment decision."

The manager nodded slightly, his eyes briefly resting on Holly before quickly concealing his surprise: "Second Young Master Irving has ordered that the Lunar Court on the third floor is not open to the public except for Mr. Sinclair. Please, this way."

The manager bowed and led them inside.

Holly followed them through the winding corridor, past a pavilion by a rock garden with the sound of a guzheng playing.

At the end of the corridor was the ground floor lobby, and the manager led them to the elevator to the third floor.

The third floor consisted entirely of private rooms.

The manager explained to Holly that the silk carpets at the entrance to each room were authentic Suzhou embroidery, and that the nameplates above had been personally inscribed by a master of classical studies employed by Second Young Master Irving.

As Holly looked at the room nameplates they passed, "Rain Bell," "Drunken Hibiscus," "Dream Elegy," "The Lunar Court"...

Being placed alongside the gilded entrance sign, it created an oddly... harmonious absurdity.

It’s as if they’ve taken both vulgarity and elegance to the extreme.

Holly grew a bit curious about this Second Young Master Irving.

Suddenly, a thought crossed her mind, and she asked the manager, "This Second Young Master Irving, is his name ’Sean Yates’?"

The manager turned back, surprised, and looked at her: "Does this lady know our Second Young Master Irving?"

Is that really his name?

Holly was surprised.

The manager led them into the "Lunar Court" private room.

Upon opening the door, a double-sided embroidered bamboo screen greeted them, with a walnut round table behind it, and two menus standing upright on top.

The manager lit the incense, finished serving the tea, silently closed the door, and left.

The two sat across from each other, and Blake Sinclair suddenly spoke, "Zhenger Shan Shan."

Holly Crowe was startled, not understanding what he meant.

But in the next moment, a line of poetry suddenly surfaced in her mind, and she recited it instinctively, "In the south, there are beautiful fish, swimming freely."

Holly thought of Second Young Master Irving, whom the manager kept mentioning, and then of Auntie Irving, whom Shirley Sinclair had previously mentioned in her watch contacts.

"This Second Young Master Irving, doesn’t he have a sister named Clara Yates?" she blurted out.

Blake Sinclair raised an eyebrow, the light behind his glasses flickered slightly, seemingly unsurprised by her response.

Holly was also taken aback.

She didn’t remember ever reading the "Classic of Poetry," yet she felt inexplicably familiar with this line of poetry.

She lowered her head, took a sip of jasmine tea, not noticing the complexity that flashed across Blake Sinclair’s eyes.

In The Lunar Court private room, the fragrance of the tea wafted around.

Blake Sinclair slid the menu to her: "Is there any dish you particularly like?"

"Anything is fine." She replied out of habit.

Blake Sinclair paused while flipping through the menu, looked up at Holly across from him, with a sincere expression: "In life, one will definitely have their likes and dislikes."

His voice was soft, yet each word was clear, with a hint of guidance: "If Miss Crowe cannot find what she truly likes, perhaps taking the first step to try everything might be a good start."

Holly felt a shudder in her heart.

Clearly, he was talking about food, but Holly felt he seemed to be speaking about more than just food.

But without making a conclusion, Blake Sinclair’s words stirred waves in her heart.

Because it had been a long time since anyone asked her what she "liked." She almost forgot it herself.

During her years with Zion Pence, she had gotten used to suppressing her preferences on purpose; she ate what he loved, avoided what he disliked.

Her emotions were almost all revolving around one person.

But what about herself?

What did she truly like?

Seeing her deep in thought, a hint of gentleness flashed in Blake Sinclair’s eyes.

He pressed the call bell, and when the manager came in, he ordered several signature dishes, put down the menu, and then sipped tea leisurely.

The sandalwood in the private room had a calming effect, and Holly, placing her mind at ease, suddenly felt a sense of relief, a moment of clarity.

She took the menu and began selecting dishes earnestly.

It was the first time in five years she ordered entirely according to her own preferences.

After placing the order, the manager confirmed the menu and left.

When the incense in the room burned out, the first dish was just served.

They ate in silence.

Holly noticed that while eating, Blake Sinclair had taken off his glasses.

The next dish was the apple duck she ordered, the aroma of the fruitwood-roasted duck sparked her appetite.

Holly took a bite, her eyes lit up, and she couldn’t help but nod.

Blake Sinclair’s lips lifted slightly: "To your taste?"

"Yes!" Holly nodded.

Blake Sinclair chuckled softly and filled her cup with jasmine tea halfway.

Holly set down her chopsticks and said, "It’s really like President Sinclair said, being brave to try can bring surprises."

"As long as you like it. Actually, it’s not just about the food; it’s the same with many people and things," Blake Sinclair said, looking into her eyes.

Without the glasses between them, their gazes met, and the amber whirlpools in his eyes carried an inexplicable allure.

Holly suddenly felt that his words had a deeper meaning.

"The desserts here are also good. Miss Crowe, you should try them later." Blake Sinclair nonchalantly changed the topic, "Shane Yates specially consulted a Vardenia pastry chef."

Holly recalled that among the dishes he had ordered earlier, there seemed to be a dessert.

Holly nodded.

She suddenly thought of something and said, "Actually, President Sinclair, you don’t need to be so formal. You can just call me Holly."

Blake Sinclair set down his chopsticks, his eyes deep: "Reciprocity is important in all things."

Holly’s ears turned hot.

Was he implying she should directly call him by his name too?

She opened her mouth, but those three words seemed like a hot potato, circling her tongue, yet still remained unsaid.

Holly simply lowered her head and continued eating.

Across from her, Blake Sinclair looked at the small swirl of hair on the top of her head, a hint of amusement flashing in his eyes.

Dinner ended in a peculiar harmony.

Through casual conversation, Blake Sinclair easily started several topics, making the meal quite pleasant.

As Holly left, she realized that it was the first time she felt genuinely relaxed since Zion Pence left.

The night was charming.

The Maybach pulled up again under the Glynmere building.

Holly rolled down the window, the night breeze brushing her cheeks, taking away the last trace of gloom.

"Thank you, President... Sinclair..." She turned to look at Blake Sinclair, paused, "Thank you for tonight’s dinner."

These words came from her heart.

The streetlight filtering through the gaps in the leaves cast mottled shadows on his face.

Blake Sinclair nodded slightly: "Good night, Holly."

Holly: "... Good, good night..."

The taillights of the Maybach disappeared, and Holly turned and went upstairs.

She didn’t notice a black Maybach lurking like a hidden beast in the shadow beneath the trees at the corner, parked for a very long time...