Shackled To The Enemy King-Chapter 41: Sleeping Arrangements

"Five hundred acres might not be big," Catherine said lightly, her tone almost conversational, "but what if there were oil wells on it? What if the land sat on prime real estate?"

She paused... just long enough.

"And what if," she continued softly, "it wasn’t five hundred acres at all... but five hundred thousand acres?"

Her lips curved faintly. "Would that be big enough for you?"

"Hm."

The sound on the other end was soft. Amused, even. But it carried weight, like judgment pressed thin and sharp.

"How... confident you are," the woman remarked.

A brief silence followed. The kind that spoke louder than any insult.

"One does wonder," she went on coolly, "whether such a manner is learned... or simply left uncorrected."

That did it.

Catherine laughed. Quietly. Not the least bit apologetic.

Who started this again?

"And how old are you?" the woman asked next.

"Just turned old enough to drink," Catherine replied smoothly. "And I hold two doctorates."

"Two doctorates, at such an age?"

The tone softened dangerously. Almost kind.

"How imaginative. Your family specializes in butchering helpless animals... And your specialization is... what exactly? I would hope it extends beyond correcting those who have lived longer than you."

Catherine scoffed under her breath.

"I may not have accumulated your years," she said calmly, "but I have learned one thing."

She paused... deliberate, precise... letting the silence stretch. To let the shade about the age sink. Women tend to not like it when their age is mentioned, right?

"We’re all deuterostomes," Catherine continued sweetly after hearing that soft whimper from the other side. "Unfortunately, not everyone manages to progress beyond the asshole phase."

Silence.

Pure, stunned silence.

Catherine stared at the phone, unbothered. She had been a pampered princess in both lives. No one had ever punished her for speaking back—especially not someone who insulted her family.

Did this woman really think Catherine would bow, smile, and beg for approval?

Ah.

She thought I wanted to marry her son.

Catherine’s lips curled.

What a mistake.

But before she could savor the moment... A weight pressed against her hand.

Maximilian leaned in, his ear resting against her knuckles. Catherine stiffened, but before she could react, he spoke.

"Mother."

His voice was calm.

Colder than the Arctic.

Even the baby who had her eyes closed and suckling peacefully, stirred and opened her eyes.

"Max—Maximilian?" His mother’s voice cracked, thin with shock. "You were there?"

Catherine turned the phone slightly, watching his profile.

The sharp line of his jaw.

The chill in his gaze.

The way his presence seemed to cut the air.

For a fleeting second...

She saw him.

The enemy king.

"I’ll call you back," Maximilian said.

"Max—"

He ended the call.

The silence that followed was... heavy.

Catherine swallowed. The tone he’d used—so distant, so absolute—made the hair at the back of her neck rise.

And suddenly... she felt bad.

Maybe she’d gone too far.

"Should I apologize to your mother?" she asked hesitantly. "She probably misunderstood—thought I was your girlfriend or something. It’s understand—"

"Why should you apologize?"

He didn’t let her finish.

"She didn’t have to disrespect you. Or your family."

Catherine blinked.

Something small, but unmistakable, fluttered in her chest.

"But... it’s natural for a mother to—"

"She needs to learn boundaries," Maximilian said, standing.

"Her son isn’t going to be her son forever."

Holding the baby, he walked toward the kitchen.

Catherine watched his back, as she followed him.

That was...

A very handsome principle to hold.

And somehow...

She liked it.

And that made it more dangerous.

-----

Alexander waited in the hospital parking lot with a hotdog in hand.

The wind had turned sharp, slicing through his coat. When he exhaled, mist bloomed faintly in the air. He tucked the hotdog carefully inside his suit jacket, as though sheltering something fragile from the cold.

Then... something shifted.

He looked up just as Roxana rushed out of the hospital doors, half-walking, half-running, her breath uneven.

Alexander’s lips curved into a smile.

Is she wearing my suit jacket? he thought, eyes narrowing slightly. The jacket was unmistakably his—too long at the sleeves, cinched at the waist with a belt like a last-minute apology.

He shook his head, amused.

"Nice suit," he said as he stepped toward her.

Roxana glanced down at herself. "Oh—this?" she said quickly. "It’s, um... the oversized trend."

Alexander tried to hold it in.

He failed.

A laugh slipped out, warm and unguarded. "That’s a men’s suit," he said, grinning. "But... alright."

Roxana scoffed, heat creeping up her neck. Why did he even care? Her heart stuttered traitorously, but she knew—knew—he wasn’t looking at her the way she wanted.

"Is your sister doing okay?" she asked.

Alexander shrugged.

"Maximilian Whitmore decided not to press charges," Roxana said. "He won’t bring up the incident again. Your sister is free."

This was the moment, wasn’t it? The reason he’d waited out here in the cold. Now that he had his answer, he would leave.

"Hm," Alexander said mildly. "Did you eat?"

Roxana frowned. Of all things...

He held out the hot dog. "Here. Eat."

She stared at it. At the way he held it, careful, almost reverent. Roxana exhaled slowly and took it.

After the gala, she thought, I’ll be engaged to someone else.

Her father had already chosen.

Maybe this could be their last meal. A quiet ending.

Alexander sat beside her. The wind tugged loose strands of her hair, brushing them across her face. Without thinking, he reached up and gently swept them aside.

He tilted his head, watching her eat.

Roxana felt his gaze and looked up. "Why are you still here?" she asked softly. "Shouldn’t you be with your sister?"

"I have to be," Alexander replied. There was too much to take care of. Too much he couldn’t say.

His eyes caught the smear of mustard at the corner of her lips. He wiped it away with his thumb... then, absentmindedly, licked his finger.

Roxana shoved his chest, startled by the hunger in his eyes.

"Go."

Instead, Alexander pulled her into his arms.

A tight hug. Desperate. As if he’d waited lifetimes for this moment.

Only Alexander knew that he had.

I won’t let you go in this lifetime, he vowed silently.

"Let’s have dinner next time," he murmured into her hair. Then he pressed a lingering kiss to her forehead.

And without looking back...

He walked away.

Roxana lifted her fingers to the warmth he’d left behind.

"What was that about..." she whispered.

She watched his long coat flutter as he disappeared, pulling it closer around himself. Oh—how she wished she could be that coat. To cling to him. To feel his warmth.

Tears slipped down her cheeks.

"Goodbye, Alexander," she whispered.

She might never see him again.

At least... not as Roxana Hollister.

-----

Meanwhile, changed into her PJs, Catherine faced a great dilemma. With the distance between them shrunk to just two meters, the only option left was... to sleep in the same room.

And if this continued... she couldn’t even use the toilet without him attached to her.

God, help me!