For the entire night, Aiden Sinclair held her. He didn’t do anything else—he just held her.
Aiden Sinclair’s unusual behavior put Nina Walsh on guard. ’Is he pitying because he found out I’m sick?’
Exhausted, Nina stayed on guard for a while before finally relaxing and closing her eyes. She fell asleep, no longer caring about his motives, whether he was just holding her or sothing more.
Worried about the bid, Nina Walsh woke up early. The space beside her on the bed was already cold.
Aiden Sinclair was gone. Nina Walsh’s first reaction was a pang of disappointnt. The mont she realized it, she imdiately scolded herself internally.
Nina Walsh climbed out of bed, found her purse, and headed for the front door.
Nina Walsh twisted the handle with all her might, but the lock didn’t budge.
The smart lock had been overridden and locked. It was impossible to open without the code.
"Where are you going?" Aiden Sinclair’s voice ca from behind her.
Nina Walsh spun around, startled. Aiden Sinclair was standing in the kitchen doorway. He looked mature and composed in his white dress shirt and suit trousers, but a chintzy floral apron was tied incongruously across his chest.
Nina Walsh stared, dumbfounded. Aiden Sinclair casually erged from the kitchen carrying two plates, which he set on the dining table.
"Co have breakfast."
When she didn’t move, he began untying the apron. "I already called Caron Lawson," he said. "You don’t need to go to the bidding. I’m giving you his entire partnership."
"Co eat," he repeated.
"I don’t need it. I can win it on my own."
Aiden Sinclair ignored her, pulling out a chair and fixing his eyes on her.
It was clear she wouldn’t be leaving until she ate this al.
Nina Walsh hesitated for a mont before walking to the table.
When Aiden Sinclair wanted to care for soone, he could beco doting and ticulous in an instant.
As he treated her so gently, a flicker of curiosity sparked within Nina Walsh. She wondered what he would make for breakfast. She had never seen him cook before; she could count on one hand the number of tis he’d even set foot in a kitchen.
The plate was still steaming. On it was a dark, lumpy mass of noodles coated in a thick sheen of oil, accompanied by a burnt fried egg. The presentation was a disaster, and the only saving grace was the evenly chopped scallions.
Nina Walsh raised her chopsticks but didn’t take a bite. An embarrassed look crossed Aiden Sinclair’s face. He cleared his throat and gestured toward the plate. "They’re scallion oil noodles. They don’t look great, but they taste alright."
He had tasted the first batch. Her bowl was the second, and it tasted much better than his.
Back when they lived at Lividia Villa, Nina Walsh made these scallion oil noodles more than anything else. They tasted of nothing but scallions and soy sauce. He’d found them bland, but she made them often and always ate them with relish.
This was the only dish he could think of that she actually liked.
So, he had gone out first thing in the morning to buy noodles and followed an online tutorial step-by-step.
The tutorial made it look easy. But Aiden Sinclair, a man who learned everything faster than anyone else, soon t his disastrous Waterloo.
He failed three tis just trying to flip an egg. Out of a whole carton, only one ended up being presentable enough to serve.
Nina Walsh looked down, picked up a few strands of noodles, and took a bite. It was too salty, and the scallion oil had a strong, burnt flavor.
"It’s delicious, thank you," Nina Walsh said, setting down her chopsticks.
Aiden Sinclair sat down across from her. "I ordered sothing else, too."
As they waited for the other breakfast to arrive, Nina Walsh spoke, as if to break the silence. "Back in high school, my mom made scallion oil noodles every morning. Every single day. Can you guess why?"
This was the first ti Nina Walsh had ever spoken about her family. They had been together for two years and had done the most intimate things imaginable, yet this was the first ti they’d ever had such a casual, dostic conversation.
In the past, Aiden Sinclair would have already lost interest.
Aiden Sinclair didn’t give it much thought. "Because you liked them?"
Nina Walsh shook her head. "Because it was cheap. A big bowl of scallion oil topping cost five yuan to make and would last half a month. A two-yuan bundle of dried noodles would feed my mom and for a week. For ten yuan, we had our breakfast settled for two weeks. You couldn’t get a cheaper breakfast than that."
Hearing the nostalgia in her voice, Aiden Sinclair felt a sharp pang in his chest, an inexplicable ache.
He recalled the information from the background check he’d run on her: when she was ten, her parents divorced. Her biological father, Brian Sherman, kicked her and her mother out of the house, forcing them to cram into a tiny, thirty-square-ter rental.
Even though Nina’s mother, Rose Walsh, had left the marriage with nothing, Brian Sherman continued to sabotage her at every turn. Eventually, the imnsely talented designer was forced to work as a hotel cleaner just to make ends et.
The two of them had relied on each other, living a difficult life, but fate had been cruel. When Nina Walsh was eighteen, Rose Walsh was diagnosed with cancer. She passed away three years later.
Aiden Sinclair said, "If you miss your mom, I can take you to see her."
With that one sentence, the grief Nina Walsh had kept bottled up inside her ca flooding out.
For the past two years, she had imagined this mont hundreds, even thousands of tis, wondering how she could possibly face her mother. ’Mom must be so disappointed in .’
She hadn’t been by her mother’s side the day she died. She hadn’t even gotten to see her one last ti. ’Mom must have hated for it.’
And so, for two years, she had buried all her longing and regret deep in her heart.
Aiden Sinclair moved closer, gently wiping a tear from the corner of her eye. His voice was patient, as if he were soothing a child. "I’ll go get ready. I’ll take you to see your mom in a little while."
True to his word, Aiden Sinclair grabbed his car keys and walked out quickly.
Aiden Sinclair went to a flower shop and picked out a bouquet of white chrysanthemums. Just as he was leaving, his phone began to ring insistently. It was his mother, Sophia Sawyer.
Aiden Sinclair answered. "What is it?"
"Aiden Sinclair, where are you?" Sophia Sawyer’s furious voice yelled from the other end of the line. "Where have you been since yesterday?"
"If there’s nothing else, I’m hanging up," Aiden Sinclair said impatiently.
"Clara’s in the hospital!" Sophia Sawyer shouted. "She’s unconscious! She’s been poisoned!"
Aiden Sinclair froze. He glanced at the white chrysanthemums on the back seat, then turned the steering wheel and headed for the hospital.
...
anwhile, Nina Walsh was still locked in. Without the code, she couldn’t open the door. She couldn’t leave. But she no longer wanted to.
She was willing to give Aiden Sinclair another chance. She even thought that if he could give her a proper explanation, she would tell him about the baby, even if they couldn’t be together.
Nina Walsh couldn’t deny it; she was starved for affection. A single "I’m sorry," a bowl of scallion oil noodles—that tiny bit of love and care was already enough to make her start forgiving Aiden Sinclair for all the pain he’d caused.
Nina Walsh sat there for a while. The noodles had been awful, but she’d eaten every bite. When she was done, she even washed the bowl.
When she saw the pile of charcoal-black fried eggs in the kitchen trash, Nina Walsh couldn’t help but let out a small smile.
Aiden Sinclair, who had excelled at everything from school to work his entire life, was, it turned out, a black hole in the kitchen.
Just as she finished cleaning up, she heard the sound of the door unlocking.
Nina Walsh hurried to the door. It swung open to reveal a man standing outside—but it wasn’t Aiden Sinclair.
Jay Keane saw Nina Walsh and gestured for her to co out. "Miss Walsh, Mr. Sinclair has asked you to co with ."
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