The Strange Groom's Cursed Bride-Chapter 68: Come outside. Now!

Rowan blinked. "No?"

"Not yet."

Milo frowned. "But—"

"Let it play out," Hades said, his voice quiet but firm, cutting off any protest.

He looked at the messy screen with its pictures, charts, names, a complex tapestry of information.

"I want to see who gets brave enough to believe this all worked too perfectly."

There was a pause, then Gavin nodded, understanding the subtle directive. "Have people keep a close eye on the Matriarch too."

Then, Hades turned to Rowan. He hesitated, a fleeting, almost imperceptible shift in his posture, and then asked, his voice returning to its cool, detached tone. "Did she... eat?"

Rowan, momentarily thrown by the abrupt change of topic, furrowed his brow. "I’m not sure the Matriarch would have the appetite for food considering all the mess happening–" Rowan paused mid-sentence as he noticed the look Hades was giving him—a glare that promised a slow, agonizing death.

And then Milo. And Gavin. Both were staring at Rowan with expressions that screamed idiot.

"Are you... insane?" Hades asked quietly, his voice dangerously low, the implied threat more chilling than any shout.

It took a second for Rowan’s brain to click and comprehend the unspoken correction. Ah!

Aurora.

Milo tucked in his lips, his eyes going up and sideways, trying desperately not to let the laughter slip out. His shoulders shook with suppressed mirth.

Rowan coughed awkwardly, clearing his throat. "She—uh, yeah. Dinner. Fed. The doctor came too." He scrambled to regain his composure.

Hades pinched his earlobe, his gaze fixed on a document in front of him, as if the conversation was merely a minor distraction. "Which doctor?"

Rowan squinted at him. "The Lady one," he hesitated before he decided to just say it. "She looked very disturbed. Maybe it’s the fever? I don’t know."

Hades, who had been absently tracing a line on the document with his finger, paused again. He raised an eyebrow, a fleeting flicker of something unreadable in his dark eyes.

"What was troubling her?" His voice was cool, utterly controlled, yet Rowan caught the almost imperceptible shift in tone, the fraction of a second too long in the pause. It was an uninterested question asked in an interested way. Or maybe an interested question asked in an uninterested way. The ambiguity was classic Hades.

But Rowan looked like he wanted to smack Hades with his tablet. His expression was a silent, exasperated query: How the hell am I supposed to know that? Do you expect me to read her mind?

But of course, he could not say that to Hades unless he was hoping for death.

He pinched the bridge of his nose.

"She was... quiet. More so than usual. And she kept staring at the painting."

"Maybe she is jealous?" Milo said, a smirk playing on his lips, enjoying the discomfort of the room.

By now, all the men were seated around the table again, the brief moment of levity gone.

Gavin, ever the astute observer of human behavior, interjected quietly, his gaze on Hades, bringing the conversation back to logistics. "Are you truly serious about moving her into Block C?"

Hades pinched the bridge of his own nose, massaging his temple as if warding off a headache. "The decision has been made."

"It’s a good thing if she does," Milo chipped in, a surprising eagerness in his voice, ignoring the tension.

Milo leaned forward, eyes gleaming with mischievous intent. "It would be better to know what they’re all up to, don’t you think? And besides," he added, a conspiratorial glint in his eye, "it would be easier for Boss to seduce her. Make her fall for you." He gestured vaguely at Hades, a wide grin spreading across his face, clearly enjoying being in charge of this particular line of thought.

Hades’s eyes narrowed, a clear warning in their depths. "No." The word was a flat, unambiguous dismissal that brooked no argument.

Silence.

Rowan, unable to resist, slowly put down his tablet. He looked at Hades, a genuine question, perhaps even a hint of pity, in his gaze. "Boss... I am just... curious. But did you get your heart broken as a teenager?"

Silence descended again, heavy and absolute. Hades’s gaze, cold and sharp enough to flay, pinned Rowan in place. Milo clamped his hand over his mouth, Milo, caught off guard, tried valiantly to stifle a burst of laughter. His shoulders shook, and he pressed a hand over his mouth, making small, strangled choking noises. Gavin, ever professional, maintained his composure, but the slightest tremor at the corner of his lips betrayed his amusement.

Hades was done with this silly conversation. He stood up abruptly, the sharp scrape of his chair against the floor echoing in the silence.

He was done with today. It was an endless torture. Every single thing.

The most annoying of them all, was his useless hand which worked against his will today. Why had he put it between her head and the wall to stop her from hitting her head? What was his business if she died from a splattered brain?

Everything kept going the wrong way.

He paused and looked at Gavin just before he made it out of the room. "Do not forget to keep an eye on Suzy. And the Matriarch too." And with that, he disappeared.

****

Alice woke up with a groan that sounded like it belonged to someone dying a very theatrical death.

Her eyes fluttered open to the unfamiliar luxury of the room. Soft golden light spilling through gauzy curtains, the lingering scent of jasmine from whatever overpriced diffuser these people used, and the cruel realization that she had not, in fact, died in her sleep.

Damn.

She rolled over and buried her face into the silk pillow, muffling a pitiful whimper. Again? She had dreamt about him. Again.

Not even one of those harmless, vague, blurry dreams. No. This one was cinematic. Shot in 4K with surround sound and dangerous lighting. The same scene, on repeat. That moment. That stupid, stupid moment.

The push.

The wall.

His hand.

His body against hers.

His face... too close. His expression unreadable, like he was about to ruin her life... or save it.

Her hand shot up to her forehead in exasperation.

"What is wrong with me?"

She sat up, her hair a wild mess, the covers tangled around her legs.

She wasn’t blushing.

She refused to blush.

And yet—

She touched her cheeks. Scalding.

"Idiot," she muttered to herself, flopping back onto the bed, pulling the pillow over her head.

Because what made it worse—infinitely worse—was that in her dream... she hadn’t just stared at him like a deer caught in broody headlights.

No.

She had leaned in.

Her brain was absolutely fried. She was losing her mind. This place was cursed. He was cursed.

She kicked off the covers violently. "Nope. Not again."

Today, she would avoid him. Not just physically. Spiritually. If he breathed, she wouldn’t inhale. If he blinked, she wouldn’t exist. If he looked at her, she would burst into flames and ascend like a disgraced saint.

She climbed out of bed like it was a battlefield, groaning as her weak muscles protested. It had been a while since she went for a jog.

It had been a while since she had her... life.

But more than that, a lot of things were amiss now.

She looked at the painting, still carefully positioned on the floor just beside the door where Suzy had left it. It was an abstract piece, a vibrant swirl of deep blues, fiery oranges, and unexpected splashes of electric green, all held together by a bold, almost reckless black stroke that sliced diagonally across the canvas. It was meant to depict the chaos of urban life finding beauty in unexpected corners.

She could swear with her life that that was Paula’s.

It was one of the paintings that won Paula the contract with the gallery at the East, a piece Paula had poured herself into. Alice remembered being there, watching her work. There was even a tiny, almost imperceptible splash of cerulean blue near the bottom right corner, a streak Alice had accidentally made with her own elbow brush. Paula, instead of being annoyed, had simply laughed, declared it an unexpected touch of brilliance, and somehow made it work, even joking that it made the painting look "prettier."

So why was it suddenly belonging to Caroline?

What was Hardy’s contribution in all this?

She had been wondering all night whether to call him and ask him about it since she couldn’t directly call Caroline. But she wasn’t sure what was a good idea. She was still thinking, her mind buzzing with suspicion.

She had to dig into this. Also, she had to dig into Aurora. And the only person to get her in touch with the information about Aurora and also to learn from Paula about this painting thingy, was Pricilla. freewebnσvel.cøm

As if knowing telepathically, her phone began to ring, a sharp, insistent sound in the quiet room.

Pricilla.

She picked the call in a hurry, her heart giving a nervous thud.

"HOW DARE YOU MOVE WITHOUT TELLING ME ABOUT IT—" Pricillia’s voice, usually so controlled, was raw with barely contained fury. There was a sharp intake of breath, as if to control her temper. "Come outside. Now!"

What the hell?

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