Fated To Not Just One, But Three Chapter 452: Still Care

Frederick’s POV

Louis stood at the door, his expression hard, arms folded across his chest. The air between us tightened instantly.

"What are you doing here?" he asked sharply. "You should leave."

I t his stare calmly, though my hands still trembled slightly. "I’m here for Selene."

That made him raise an eyebrow. "Oh? Not for Olivia?" His tone carried disbelief and sothing close to mockery. "So you like Selene now? Does that an you’ll finally let Olivia go?"

I said nothing. There was no point arguing about what he couldn’t understand.

Louis gave a small, humorless laugh. "You killed her mother," he said flatly. "And now you’re standing here pretending you care?"

My jaw tightened. "I didn’t kill her," I said quietly. "And I’ll prove it."

Louis stepped closer, his brown eyes sharp. "We’ll have that conversation later," he said coldly, "but for now, you need to leave."

"No," I replied simply.

He frowned. "What?"

"I said no." I glanced past him, down the hallway. "Where’s the kitchen?"

His brows furrowed, clearly thrown off. "The kitchen?"

"Yes," I said, brushing past him before he could argue. "Selene hasn’t eaten in hours. I’m going to make her sothing."

Louis blinked, almost speechless. "You’re unbelievable," he muttered, shaking his head.

"Maybe," I said, pausing briefly. "I’ll leave once I’m sure Selene is okay."

Then I continued down the hall, leaving him behind, confused, irritated, and maybe, just maybe, a little unsure of what to think anymore.

The hallways of the Luciano mansion were silent. My footsteps echoed softly as I made my way through the vast corridors, searching for the kitchen.

It was almost 3 a.m.

The whole house was asleep or grieving.

I finally found the kitchen after a few wrong turns. It was enormous, with marble counters, long shelves, and rows of silver pots gleaming under the dim light. But it was empty. Not a single kitchen assistant or cook in sight.

Of course, no one was thinking about food tonight.

I sighed and stepped inside. The silence was thick. For a second, I just stood there, unsure where to start. It had been years since I last cooked anything.

Decades, actually.

I rolled up my sleeves, scanning the space until I found a few simple ingredients: bread, eggs, milk, and honey. My fingers brushed against the counter, rembering the movents, the rhythm.

It felt strange, comforting, and painful at the sa ti.

The last ti I cooked for soone, it had been for Hailee, shockingly Selene’s great-grandmother.

I could still rember her laughter, the way she had teased for burning the first attempt. "Lord Frederick, you’re terrible with a stove," she had said, grinning.

And I had laughed, a sound that felt foreign now. It had been a long ti since I laughed that way.

My chest tightened as I whisked the eggs and poured them into a pan. The soft crackle filled the silence, and for a mont, it almost felt peaceful.

I caught my reflection in the window: older, colder, and tired. "Hailee," I murmured quietly, "you’d laugh if you saw now."

The sll of the food spread faintly through the kitchen. It wasn’t much, just warm bread and eggs with a drizzle of honey, but it was okay.

And maybe that’s what Selene needed most right now.

I placed the al on a tray, wiped my hands on a towel, and took a deep breath.

Then I turned toward the door, ready to return to her room, ready to return to the woman who made feel the way only Hailee had, and yet she hated so much.

I walked back into the room. Selene was awake. She sat up. Her face was tired. She frowned when she saw .

I put the tray on the small table. The warm sll of eggs rose. I sat on the edge of the bed. My hands still shook a little.

"Eat," I said quietly.

She looked at the food. Her eyes flashed. "Did you poison it to kill ?" she asked. Her voice was cold.

Those words hit like a stone. I felt hurt, but I kept my face calm.

"If I wanted you dead, Selene, you wouldn’t still be talking."

She flinched, ever so slightly. I didn’t an it as a threat, but truth often sounds like one.

I picked up a spoon. I tasted the egg myself. It was plain. I smiled, but it was only a small one.

"This is for you," I said. I lifted a spoon with the egg on it. I held it out. "Open."

She folded her arms and looked away. "I will not," she said.

I leaned forward slightly, my tone low but firm, the tone that used to make soldiers obey without question. "I said, open your mouth, Selene. Or I have better ways to make you listen."

She looked at . She saw my face. She saw I ant it. Slowly, she parted her lips.

I put the spoon to her mouth. She bit. Her eyes closed for a second.

She pulled back and looked away. "I don’t have an appetite."

"No," I said. "You need to eat. You need strength." I tried not to sound pleading, but I did.

She stared at . Then, very slowly, she took another small bite. She did not smile. She did not say thank you. But her shoulders relaxed a little, and that was more important.

I watched her chew slowly, her lashes lowering as if she was trying to hide from .

When she finished that bite, I lifted the spoon again, ready to feed her another. "One more," I said softly.

But before the spoon reached her lips, her hand shot up. Her fingers brushed against mine, warm, trembling, stubborn. She took the spoon from , her jaw tightening.

"I can feed myself," she muttered.

For a second, I didn’t move. Her hand lingered in the air, still close to mine, and the simple touch made my heart stumble. I slowly let go of the spoon, watching her lift it to her mouth.

She ate in silence, refusing to look at .

Suddenly, dull pain spread through my ribs, sharp enough to make tense. I drew in a breath, trying to hide it, but the effort made the wound throb harder. My hand moved instinctively to my side. I forgot I had gotten an injury during the fight and hadn’t healed myself yet.

I winced, the breath slipping out of as a low groan.

Selene froze. Her head snapped toward , her eyes wide. "What’s wrong?"

I tried to brush it off, but another wave of pain rolled through . "It’s nothing," I said, my voice tight.

Her gaze dropped to my side. Her brows furrowed when she saw the faint stain seeping through my shirt. "You’re bleeding," she whispered. Her tone wasn’t cold this ti. It was worried.

For a second, I almost forgot how to breathe. Seeing that look on her face, that tiny flicker of concern, made sothing warm stir inside .

I smiled faintly, forcing a shaky breath. "You still care," I whispered, the words escaping before I could stop them.

Her eyes widened slightly, but she didn’t deny it.

And in that mont, the pain didn’t matter anymore.

It was enough, that one look, that small proof that sowhere beneath her anger and hurt, her heart hadn’t closed off completely.