Master of his heart

Chapter 83
He was supposed to be away on business tonight, not here. Deep down, she prayed he wouldn’t show up. She feared that the
protective walls she had painstakingly built would crumble to ruins in his presence.
People mustn’t harbor expectations, for expectations breed vulnerability.
The warmth under her feet hadn’t faded, and as she wanted to curl up, she felt herself forcibly unraveled. She struggled to open
her eyes, only to be met with a taut jawline, his breath cool as the frost, threatening to freeze one to the core. Yet, in his
presence, she found a strange sense of peace.
Outside the police station, Sophia had already been brought in. She had rehearsed countless excuses in her mind, plotting how
she would tear into Brielle upon seeing her. How could that bitch refused settle things privately? How could she drag her, a
member of the Rowland family, into this mess?
She was determined to teach Brielle a lesson this time.
Getting out of the car, she saw a tall figure cradling someone into a vehicle at a distance. She was too far away to see who the
man was.
“Where’s Brielle? I need to speak with her personally,” Sophia said impatiently as she strode into the lobby, casting a disdainful
look at the man also in cuffs, incompetent in every endeavor, a liability at best.
On the way back to Premier Palace, Patrick, seated in the front, hardly dared to breathe.
An hour ago, the car had nearly left Beaconsfield when it turned back. Max had personally gone to the police
station.
It was the first time Max had missed such an important meeting to deal with a woman’s affairs.
Curiosity was killing Patrick, who kept stealing glances through the rearview mirror, but Max’s expression was icy, his hold on
Brielle protective and possessive.
The private doctor was already waiting in the foyer. It was the second time in a short span that Brielle had been injured. After
tending to her foot injury, the doctor handed a tube of ointment to Max. It was a bruise–healing ointment, necessary for the stark
red mark around Brielle’s neck, as if someone had strangled her with considerable force.

The atmosphere in the foyer was tense, everyone on edge. The doctor, noticing Max’s reluctance, carefully placed the ointment
on the coffee table. “Apply it morning and night, and the bruising should fade in three days.” He didn’t linger, almost bolting from
the oppressive presence of Max.
Max glanced at the ointment on the table and finally relented. He washed and disinfected his hands thoroughly in the bathroom.
Upon returning, he tucked the ointment inside his suit and carried Brielle upstairs.
Brielle was restless in her sleep, her forehead beaded with sweat. Max gently placed her on the bed and squeezed some
ointment onto his fingertip.
As he spread the cool cream, her skin goosebumped, and she instinctively reached to wipe it away, only to have her wrist
caught.
“Don’t move.”
He pressed her hand to the bed while his other hand skillfully continued to apply the ointment. Once finished, he grabbed a wet
wipe to clean his fingers and looked up to see Brielle’s eyes open, gazing at him with a mix of confusion and childlike innocence.
“Uncle Max, weren’t you supposed to be on a business trip?”
Max tossed the wipe into the trash and closed his eyes lightly, still visibly upset, and thus didn’t respond.
Brielle tugged gently at his sleeve, perhaps aware that he was angry but not understanding why. She was the one in pain, with a
sore neck, sore feet, and aching heart. Her eyes warmed, as if tears were struggling to break free.
Max watched her, his gaze softening slightly, “Why are you crying?”
Brielle shook her head, trying to explain but unable to utter a word.
Looking at her reddened nose and damp lashes, Max saw for the first time her vulnerability. The Brielle he knew was cunning,
resolute, and seductive. She had never cried like this before.
In his twenty–six years of life, Max had seen his fair share of women’s tears, but Brielle’s tears were different. They effortlessly
seized his heart.