The sky gradually brightened.
Poppy Hale woke up, still in Declan Hawthorne’s arms.
She pushed his arm but couldn’t move it.
Helpless, she had to speak up, "President Hawthorne, I need to go to the bathroom."
After pushing a few more tis, he still didn’t move an inch.
Poppy, frustrated, simply opened her mouth and bit his arm, leaving a circle of teeth marks.
Quite obvious.
Declan Hawthorne loosened his grip and let her go to the bathroom.
As soon as she entered the bathroom, Declan knocked on the door.
"There’s a toothbrush and towel in the drawer, clean ones."
"Okay."
After the footsteps receded, Poppy finally breathed a sigh of relief.
She opened the drawer, finding unopened towels and toothbrushes, all in neutral styles, probably prepared for guests.
But in this ho, it’s hard to find any traces of guests.
Looking at the mirror while brushing her teeth, Poppy felt sothing strange.
In Declan’s ho, it seed like everything was placed to one side, while the other side of the shelves and cabinets were empty.
Probably prepared for a partner.
Her brushing paused montarily as she was disturbed by the sudden thought.
She forced herself not to overthink.
Those were other people’s matters.
Whoever Declan married, whichever woman’s belongings filled this ho, it had nothing to do with her.
Perhaps this ho would have other colors.
Maybe Rachel Rivers, Chantal Underwood, the woman who bought Declan coffee, or other blind date candidates arranged by the Hawthorne Family.
The mind is a strange thing.
The more you don’t want to think about sothing, the more intensely those thoughts multiply.
She splashed water on her face using her hands, washing up.
When she walked out, Declan also erged from the master bedroom’s bathroom.
He had put on a shirt and was tying a tie.
A corner of his shirt was not tucked into his waistband, probably because he didn’t use shirt stays today.
Unless there’s a significant formal eting, Declan dressed a bit more casually.
But that shirt corner still looked sowhat out of place.
Poppy couldn’t resist reminding him.
"President Hawthorne, your shirt."
Declan glanced sideways, "Sorry, my hand’s cramped, could you help ?"
The shirt was misaligned at his lower back.
It was a bit inappropriate to ask Poppy for help.
But Declan’s gaze was too candid, and he even raised his hand, signaling her to co over.
She had no choice but to brace herself and walk over. Poppy reached out, tucked the shirt in, and had to smooth out so wrinkles for it to look tidy.
Her fingers brushed against the edge of his cotton underwear.
Without needing to look, she knew her face was probably a bit red now.
A man’s chuckle resonated above her head, a light-hearted laugh.
"Thank you."
Just as Poppy was about to say "you’re welco," the door to Declan’s ho was opened.
Morgan Sloan appeared in the living room with breakfast.
He walked in and imdiately saw their President holding a woman in his arms.
He couldn’t see the woman’s face, but he could see their President’s clearly!
The smile on that face made Morgan think he had entered the wrong house.
The place Declan lived was an ultra-luxurious penthouse with three elevators per unit; once you swiped your card, this was the only floor you could go to, with no chance of entering the wrong place.
Morgan persisted, "Good morning, President Hawthorne."
"Hmm, just leave the breakfast."
Hearing Morgan’s voice, Poppy wanted to die from embarrassnt.
If Morgan found out she was in Declan’s ho, and in such a position, she could kiss her job goodbye.
Morgan observed the woman’s back, feeling sowhat familiar.
He cautiously asked, "Is this President Hawthorne’s girlfriend? I only prepared one breakfast, not knowing your preference; I can go buy more."
Feeling Morgan’s gaze drawing closer.
Poppy hastily hugged Declan’s waist tighter, burying her face in his chest.
Prayed desperately that Morgan wouldn’t co over.
Declan’s lips curved upward, and his hand rested on the back of Poppy’s neck. His fingers lightly caressed through her hair, gently brushing her nape.
Causing Poppy to get goosebumps all over.
Declan responded slowly, "No need, just this, you can wait downstairs."
"Alright."
Morgan, as the head secretary and Declan’s assistant.
There was no housekeeper at Declan’s place; it was usually Morgan who bought breakfast according to Declan’s taste.
Today, he forgot Morgan was coming.
But seeing Poppy like this, Declan found it amusing.
Morgan hurriedly left.
Poppy finally retreated from Declan’s embrace.
Her first words were accusatory, "Why didn’t you tell soone was coming!"
"You’re quite controlling, not even letting eat breakfast?"
Poppy was about to leave when she heard Declan calmly say, "If you go down now, Morgan is waiting downstairs."
"Besides, four hours haven’t passed yet."
He had calculated the gap before work, counting it as part of the compensation he requested.
Poppy was caught in a difficult position.
She had no choice but to sit down and have breakfast with him.
Though it was ant for one, Morgan always prepared a variety of breakfast options, fearing Declan might change his taste in the morning.
Placing porridge and salted duck eggs in front of Poppy, laying out several boxes of buns.
Declan opened the fridge himself, poured a glass of iced milk, and added coffee to it.
Just watching made Poppy’s stomach churn.
Taking a bite of a bun, she remarked, "President Hawthorne, eating this way, might not be good for your stomach."
"It’s fine; I won’t die just yet."
Since he said so, Poppy closed her mouth.
The life of a capitalist isn’t really a life.
After she had a few bites, Declan casually remarked, "You didn’t co ho last night; isn’t your husband looking for you?"
Poppy lowered her head.
Searching her mind for a reason.
It took a while for her to co up with a clumsy excuse, murmuring, "He’s not been coming ho recently, so he wouldn’t know I didn’t."
In reality, there were no traces of a man living in that ho.
Let alone, they were already divorced.
Declan picked up a bun, finishing it in two bites.
"You ntioned before that you married him because he’s good-looking?"
Sean Lynch was indeed quite handso.
Mr. Hale’s family had good genes, and Poppy had an uncle who was a movie star in that era. The younger generation in the Lynch Family each had their own appeal.
But with Declan asking this way, Poppy felt as if sothing of hers was being seen through.
A bit uneasy.
She tucked her hair behind her ear, "Yes, I guess."
"Your daughter doesn’t look like your husband."
Poppy’s heart started racing.
Her palms began to sweat.
The bun she had just eaten lost all taste, becoming like chewing wax.
The nervousness crept like wild vines, entwining all her nerves, causing cold sweat to break out on her back.
Her voice trembled, but outwardly she maintained a calm smile, facing Declan.
"Yeah, my daughter doesn’t look like her dad."
This was true.
Florence Lynch didn’t, without a close look, bear any resemblance to Declan in her features.
"Who does she look like then?"
Declan’s fingers holding the coffee cup, as if playing with a delicate ornant, casually remarked, "Does she look like her grandmother?"
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