Chapter 49: Weren't Enough Words

No way Tilda was letting that old bastard slip away again.

Tilda worked nonstop for two hours straight before finally dropping her pen. She glanced at the clock. It was already 9 p.m.

"All this prep should be enough."

A little smirk tugged at her lips, full of quiet confidence. She was just about to whip up some instant noodles for dinner when her phone buzzed. It was a message from Jude.

Tilda looked down. Jude wrote, "Want me to bring you something to eat?"

Attached was a photo of some strange black lump, sticky and gross-looking. At first, she didn’t want to answer, but that ugly thing in the photo piqued her curiosity.

What is that even supposed to be? Is he playing some kind of prank?

Tilda typed back, "What is this supposed to be?"

Jude replied, "When people with Omega-type blood get older, their sense of taste fades. I worked with tons of scientists and chefs to make this food. Doesn't look great, but tastes amazing."

Tilda froze. So there is a side effect like that? No wonder, in my last life, everything had started to taste bland. But now, back at 19, I haven’t hit that stage yet. Still… maybe I should plan ahead.

She wrote, "Thank you for your kindness, Mr. Bell. How do I get it from you?"

Jude replied, "Send me your address. I’ll bring it over."

Tilda simply wrote back an ellipsis.

Jude asked, "Problem with that?"

Tilda replied, "No." Then she sent her location.

She knew better. A man like Jude could dig up her address in seconds if he really wanted to. Hiding from him was pointless. As long as she didn’t blow her cover, it didn’t matter.

Half an hour later, the doorbell rang. Tilda opened the door. Jude stood there, in person, alone.

"Are you gonna invite me in?"

His deep, magnetic voice carried the kind of tone that could make a woman’s knees weak.

Tilda coughed lightly. "This is a single woman’s place, you know…"

"Relax. I don’t force anyone to do what they don’t want." He lowered his head slightly, his amber eyes locking onto hers, like pools of molten gold. It was the kind of gaze that made people feel their souls might drown. It was dangerous and irresistible.

"Fine. Come in."

It was hard to kick someone out after they’d come all the way for you, especially when she had been the one curious about that weird food in the first place. Closing the door on him now would’ve been flat-out rude.

Tilda trusted herself, but with someone like Jude, her usual confidence faded. Still, she was sure of one thing–he wouldn’t lay a finger on her against her will.

Jude’s lips curved slightly as he stepped inside. Her place was simple and bright, easy to take in with one glance. There was a muted couch, a coffee table, and soft lighting with matching dishes. She had everything necessary, nothing extra. It was Tilda’s style–clean, neat, intentional.

Exactly like Jude.

She took the food container from his hand. "Sit anywhere… Uh, you already ate, right?"

Jude tilted his sharp jaw slightly, nodding. "You should eat while it’s hot."

"Yeah. Perfect timing. I’m starving."

The air felt heavy and strange. Tilda wasn’t good at dealing with men like him–men who gave off power with every glance, every breath. Around him, she always had the fear that he could crush her without even trying.

So she quickly made an excuse, leaving him in the living room while she slipped into the kitchen with the food. Not like she owned anything worth stealing anyway. A man at Jude’s level probably thought her little apartment looked shabby.

She opened the container. Sure enough, there was that same dark, strange lump from the photo. She lifted it closer and sniffed.

Huh… it actually smells good.

It wasn’t like some kinds of food where the stink was part of the appeal. This just looked terrifying–like nightmare fuel for anyone who judged food by appearance. But the scent made her stomach rumble.

The problem is, how am I even supposed to eat this?

She peeked out from the kitchen. Jude was sitting on the blue couch. His long legs were crossed casually, the tailored suit on his body glowing faintly under the white light. The glow traced his face, so sharp and flawless that it didn’t look real.

He had stern features, his soft eyes lowered in thought. He seemed to be thinking about something. His lips were pressed lightly, his nose perfectly straight, his profile sharp like it was carved. Every angle looked like a brushstroke from Van Gogh–too precise and beautiful, like a masterpiece come to life.

Even just sitting, at 6’3", his presence filled the room, heavy and commanding. And beneath it all, he carried the natural authority of a king.

There weren’t enough words in the world to describe Jude.