Chapter 81
It was a simple sentence, but as the words left his lips, a thin layer of sweat slicked Theobald’s palms.
On the one hand, he didn’t want to start rumors about Marguerite. She was only eighteen, and the idea of her living with a man would tarnish her reputation. On the other hand, he was just as reluctant to slander Mr. Spencer, a man of his character —so gentle and refined. But he had no choice. This was the only way he could think of to make Joshua back off and leave Marguerite alone for good.
Joshua, however, wasn’t buying it for a second.
“Impossible!” he scoffed over the phone. “Marguerite would never be into a guy like George. She only loves me p>
Though it was the truth, the words grated on Theobald’s ears. ʀᴇᴀᴅ ʟᴀᴛᴇsᴛ ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀs ᴀᴛ.net
His voice turned to ice. “Don’t you own a mirror? Or a reality check p>
Joshua was speechless.
Веер. Веер. Веер.
The line went dead again.
The veins on Joshua’s neck bulged. He took one last, deep drag from his cigarette before flicking it to the ground and grinding it out with his heel.
He refused to believe Theobald’s crap. The man had always harbored a deep- seated hostility toward him; he even suspected Theobald had only pursued Hannah out of spite.
A cool evening breeze washed over Joshua’s face, and he ran a hand through his hair, his mind racing with a thousand questions.
How on earth had Marguerite just reappeared out of thin air?
Before seeing the video, he’d entertained the theory that she hadn’t died in the crash at all. Maybe that psycho George had saved her and kept her locked away somewhere, only recently letting her out. But that theory fell apart the moment he saw her.
She was too young.
More than a decade-eleven years, to be exact had passed without leaving a single trace on her face. Even if she’d been held captive, completely cut off from the world, it was impossible for an eleven year transformation to be so nonexistent. Her eyes, especially, were exactly the same as he remembered:
shimmering and pure, sparkling with life.
Those weren’t the eyes of a woman approaching thirty. They were the eyes of an eighteen-year-old girl.
There was another thing. Eleven
years ago, George had been nothing more than a broke student. He had nothing. How could he have saved Marguerite, let alone supported her all these years? And Marguerite with her pride and intelligence would never have willingly remained a prisoner. How could George have dared to reveal his dark, twisted side to her?
Based on all this, he was almost certain that Marguerite’s real age was, in fact, eighteen.
He’d once starred in a film about a man who, after a car crash, time-traveled into the future. His family was stunned that he hadn’t aged a day, and he used his youthful appearance to court and marry his childhood sweetheart.
So, there was another possibility: Marguerite had time-traveled here from the car crash eleven years ago.
The thought made his heart pound in his chest. He pulled another cigarette from his pocket, lit it, and took a deep, steadying drag.
If that were true, there was no way she could be in love with George. In her mind, she was still his girlfriend. It would also explain why she was ignoring him now. She was eighteen again, emotional and in need of coddling.
The wind pushed back his hair, accentuating his high hairline as he flicked the ash from his cigarette with a single finger.
Whatever the truth was, he had to see her.
Ding!
Just as he stepped into the villa, a message lit up George’s phone.
[Sir, should we continue protecting Ms. Lopez tomorrow p>
He had been fighting every impulse to spy on her meeting with Joshua, so he had pulled back the men who had been watching over her from the shadows But the decision had left him deeply unsettled, unable to concentrate on anything. He wanted-no, needed-to know her every move, to ensure her safety.
Having lost her once, he couldn’t bear the thought of anything happening to her ever again.