Chapter 45
She forced down the storm of sorrow and rage rising in her chest, suppressing the burning redness in her eyes. Swallowing hard, she pushed back the ice-cold tears that threatened to fall. Bite by bite, she ate in silence, never lifting her gaze. So absorbed in maintaining composure, she failed to notice Julian watching her silently from the side.
From the moment Rosalie had started arguing with Helena, Julian had remained silent. He had watched Rosalie stand alone, facing a crowd of opposition, battling them all with nothing but her sharp words. On the surface, she seemed untouchable, even victorious.
But somewhere deep in Julian’s chest, an unfamiliar ache had settled. It was subtle but persistent, a lingering discomfort he couldn't quite place, yet couldn't ignore. Rosalie’s icy indifference was like an impenetrable shield, flawlessly concealing the vulnerability buried deep within her. She looked utterly untouchable, as if nothing could shake her. And yet, the more she appeared this way, the more suffocating the tightness in Julian’s chest became.
“You’re not going to check on her?” The question slipped from his lips before he even understood why he was asking.
Rosalie’s hand, which had been lifting her utensils, paused momentarily. Then, her expression remained unreadable as she slowly raised her gaze to meet his. A cold, mocking smile tugged at the corners of her lips.
“Mr. Galloway,” she said, her tone dripping with irony, “you’re so worried, you’re free to go upstairs and check on her yourself. No one’s stopping you.” Her delicate features were utterly devoid of warmth; her eyes were sharp with disdain and sarcasm. “In fact, if you do, they’ll all be thrilled,” Rosalie thought bitterly. They’d probably love nothing more than to see Helena take her place and marry into the Galloway family.
Julian could hear the sharp edge in her voice, but what truly bothered him was the sheer derision in her eyes—undisguised, deliberate. His own fury burned. But hearing her so casually lump him together with another woman sent a sharp, inexplicable irritation coursing through him.
And before he could stop himself, the words left his mouth, blunt and cutting. “She got sick because of you, and you’re still sitting here eating like nothing happened? I have to say, I’m curious—are you really this cold-blooded?”
He couldn’t care less about Helena’s condition. To him, she was nothing more than a background figure, entirely insignificant. But what did matter was Rosalie’s treatment of him.
Time and time again, he tried to search her seemingly calm and detached gaze for the admiration she once had for him, the glimmer that used to light up her eyes when she looked at him. But no matter how hard he searched, he couldn’t find even the slightest trace of it.