A fat raindrop suddenly fell on the windshield, hitting with a dull splash, and within a few breaths, the rain hamred down in a wild clatter, the noise turning the car into a separate, sealed little world.
Cillian Grant’s outline drew nearer in the gray shadow, and when Eleanor tried to dodge, he pressed down on the back of her head and kissed her fiercely.
He unfastened his seat belt, and then hers, and as Eleanor felt his arm tighten forcefully around her waist, she lost her balance for a second and was pulled into the driver’s seat by him.
The rain pounded harder, the wind howled outside, and his kisses grew more dangerous, negative emotions intensifying, as if he were about to explode.
Eleanor knew him too well; in monts like this, he was impossible to control—utterly unrestrained, insatiable, lost to savagery and violence, devoid of reason or tenderness.
She absolutely couldn’t withstand his madness right now.
Taking advantage of a brief pause, Eleanor quickly tried to redirect his attention.
"I didn’t lie to you last night. When I heard the knock, I thought it was you, so I opened the door. When I saw Damian Sinclair, he had already co in. What I said last night was the truth—there’s nothing romantic between us, and I don’t have any feelings left for him."
"You don’t, but he does." Cillian pressed his forehead to hers. "He postponed the wedding because he’s tempted. He went upstairs to see you to find out if you’d co back to him."
"Whatever he wants, that’s his business. It’s got nothing to do with ."
At this point, Eleanor decided to cut off all ambiguity, make things brutally clear. "My feelings are very clear—he’s not the only man in the world, and the past is just that, the past. Besides, that past already left your sister pregnant and keeps causing trouble. Whenever I hear his na, my scalp tingles, and just breathing the sa air as him suffocates ."
Cillian pulled back, looking her up and down.
Eleanor was sharp, wicked-tongued, able to fire insults like clever rhys.
Pushed to the limit, she could even produce eloquent, polished vows.
But whenever she got too clever, it always made her seem insincere, as though she was just trying to smooth things over and hide her real feelings.
Cillian stayed silent, and Eleanor grew even more anxious.
Outside, the torrents of rain suddenly stopped. The clouds parted, sunlight spilling into the car and illuminating him.
His eyes were bloodshot, and showed no sign of calming—if anything, their intensity only surged, making Eleanor uncontrollably afraid. She leaned back desperately to push him away.
Cillian caught both her wrists in one hand, his other hand dropping to her waist. His fingers were hot and rough, calloused and still scabbed with healing wounds.
The overlapping textures of his grip felt like burning sand. "Are you clean now?"
Eleanor’s whole body tensed. She was carrying his child, his blood inside her—through that thin layer of skin, the heat of his palm seed to seep into her, like molten lava pouring in.
With his eyes burning red, inside and out, it felt as if they’d be consud together. Eleanor’s nerves nearly shattered; her heart felt like it might explode.
"No..." she stamred involuntarily, "My... my flow’s heavy."
Cillian seed about to say sothing when his phone rang atop the console.
From the other side of the parking lot, a family strolled by; outside, a child’s innocent laughter, inside, the phone’s harsh ring vibrating in the car.
Cillian took a deep breath, his chest straining as he tried to calm himself.
When Eleanor felt the grip on her loosen, she imdiately scrambled back into the passenger seat, hastily buckling her seatbelt.
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the caller ID: Phoebe Grant.
She was instantly surprised—not that Phoebe would call, but by how Cillian had her listed.
Not "Phoebe," not "little sister"—just her full na, three formal characters.
Formal, proper, distant.
It didn’t match at all with the spoiling and indulgence he usually gave Phoebe Grant.
"Brother, Damian and his parents are here to discuss the wedding date again."
Cillian glanced at Eleanor, his tone unreadable, shaded with sothing difficult to pin down. "Weren’t they going to co in a couple days?"
"Damian feels sorry for . He said the sooner it’s settled, the sooner I’ll have peace of mind."
Cillian tugged open his collar, half-smiling, half not. "Now he’s getting enthusiastic."
"Co on, Brother—Damian’s serious this ti." Phoebe pouted playfully, then her tone fell, "But his parents seem to have a real problem with . Please, Brother, hurry back."
When the call ended, Cillian’s manner cooled completely—not just his anger fading, but all warmth gone from his eyes.
He started the car. "What you just said—you’d better an it."
Eleanor caught the warning in his voice. "I’ll keep my word."
Damian Sinclair didn’t know the truth about the past—so the two of them could still get along.
But now that he knew everything... Eleanor recalled the fury in his eyes when he barged into her room, and felt only more despair, as if things couldn’t possibly get worse.
...
Driving out of the hospital district, they passed several blocks where the landscaping was being replaced.
The downpour had just ended, the roads nearly empty, making the sight of busy workers stand out even more.
She unconsciously watched: huge trees as thick as bowls, with root balls wrapped in earth, were hoisted up by cranes; water trucks trailed behind to irrigate; workers in yellow vests bustled back and forth planting them.
Eleanor tilted her head up. The sky was gray and dim, the chill of early winter in the air, hardly the season for tree-planting no matter how she looked at it.
"Curious?"
Cillian suddenly broke the silence.
Eleanor turned to look at him.
He, too, was gazing at the freshly-planted, bare trees on the dian, a wild recklessness swirling in his eyes—recklessness that seed to co out of nowhere, with no beginning or end.
Eleanor really couldn’t figure him out and muttered under her breath, "Winter’s not the right ti to plant trees."
Cillian shifted his gaze back to the road. "Not the right ti doesn’t an it can’t be done."
After years of urban landscaping, if there’s enough money, you can plant trees even in heavy snow. But the cost is enormous; no governnt would authorize such extravagance for a public project.
"Is there so international summit coming up?"
"No."
Eleanor frowned. "Then what regular project would the city even have money for?"
"The city doesn’t." Cillian shot her a look. "But I do."
Eleanor was taken aback. In the last four years, Cillian had proved his ruthlessness and cunning in business, sharp-eyed and calculating, never wasting a penny—yet here he was, pouring money into public landscaping, putting up thick old trees all over the city.
Just these few streets would have cost tens of millions at least.
It was totally out of character for him.
"So what kind of tree is it?" She was honestly curious but didn’t dare ask straight, so she tried a roundabout way.
The Grant Group had a landscaping project out in the suburbs; in the early days, it was small-scale, with only ordinary species planted.
But in recent years the project kept expanding; Eleanor had heard Phoebe ntion that now the nursery had upgraded to many rare types. If old trees were phased out and donated to the city, it wouldn’t be impossible—a smart way to build governnt ties.
"Spring cherry."
Eleanor froze.
The nursery didn’t have spring cherry at first; only because Phoebe liked them did Mr. Grant go all out, writing a huge order to add several varieties to the list—Kanzan, Kirin, White Hosei, Red Hosei, and the one she loved most, Luna.
But even the Luna Eleanor liked couldn’t compare with a single off-handed ntion from Phoebe.
First Mr. Grant invested more, now Cillian was filling the city with spring cherries.
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