He curled the corner of his lips into a brief smile. "Just consider me crazy." Beneath the shadow of his lashes, his eyes betrayed no trace of amusement.
Huh? Eloise couldn't comprehend the situation. Did she lose track of something because of amnesia? Or had she transmigrated again? The last time they met, he was lying there like a corpse, and now... he was proposing?
There were so many things left unsaid, so many explanations yet to be made between them. She couldn't even say what they were exactly, but she just didn't want to proceed like this, muddled and unclear.
Oh right, he had never explicitly expressed his feelings for her. When he said he liked her, it was always in a half-hearted, playful way!! Or it was always on the bed!
What kind of twisted logic led someone to propose marriage when the relationship was still a tangled mess? Damn, he really was no ordinary person!
After the initial shock, a sense of anger began to rise within Eloise. The document in her hands was meticulously detailed, with notarized signatures and numerous clauses, indicating that this was not a spur-of-the-moment decision. He had likely spent quite a bit of time preparing it. Even if he was out of his mind, it was a madness that had lasted at least a week, maybe even longer.
But why should she follow all of his arrangements? Be toyed with by him? Disappearing, reappearing, proposing, happily ever after—could it really be that simple? It was so absurd that she didn't even know what to say. She slammed the papers onto the table. "I won't marry."
Isidore wasn't surprised. His turned profile showed a hint of embarrassment. His fingers tapped on the table, and he said with a dry tone, "Take a look at the amount on top, and then speak." No need for him to remind her—Eloise had already seen it. The numbers stretched so long they seemed like a printing error. She widened her eyes. "Am I the kind of person who would be swayed by wealth?"
Alright, she admittedly was, but it wasn't to the point where she'd trade away the rest of her life for money. Isidore pressed his lips together, then asked in a deep voice, "What do you want then? A diamond ring? A wedding dress?" He reached into his chest.
Eloise closed her eyes, holding back her anger. "Where the hell have you been to lose your mind?"
Isidore lowered his head and let out a cold laugh. As expected, he never heard anything pleasant from her. He scanned the small apartment—modest yet cozy, filled with warmth and the energy of life. Even without him, her life went on, unfolding with vitality. Yet he, burdened by old scars, was consumed by his own negative emotions every day.
Heh, how unfair.
After a brief silence, he spoke, "Eloise, I want to marry you, not harm you. All the terms are written in black and white. Marry me, and you don't need to do anything, no matter what happens in the future, you'll get more money than even your father's lifetime could have earned. Think it through, this is only beneficial for you."
His tone was like a negotiation at the business table, at first glance convincing. But Eloise disliked that tone, hated his domineering attitude, and as a result, ignored the sincerity buried beneath his words. "Why?" she asked, then phrased the same question in a much less friendly manner. "What the hell is wrong with you?"
"Wrong?" Isidore frowned slightly and looked into her eyes. "But I've wanted to do this for a long time." "Really? I can't tell," Eloise met his gaze without flinching. He always kept everything from her, never telling her anything, controlling when he disappeared and when he appeared—was this really the attitude of someone who wanted to spend a lifetime together?
If it was, then he really needed to reflect on himself. In the end, it was Isidore who averted his gaze first.
Eloise was not someone who could hide her thoughts. Once her emotions found an outlet, they poured out endlessly. "Why didn't you show up once you were healed? Do you really think I've teamed up with Lysander and the others to kill you? And then there's that time when Lysander said..." "I never thought like that," Isidore interrupted her, his eyes not meeting hers.
"That time Lysander said," Eloise raised her voice, emphasizing each repeated word, "Your father..." "Enough, I don't want to discuss this topic." Isidore interrupted her again, decisively.
The room fell silent, and even the sound of breathing seemed to vanish. Isidore spoke again, his voice rough, as if his vocal cords had been scraped with sandpaper, his gaze fixed on a spot of water on her sleeve. "Why is your clothes wet?" A deep disappointment passed through Eloise's eyes. What exactly was he avoiding? At the same time, she let go of some of her inner conflict, rolled up her sleeve, and said, "The pipe burst."
Isidore asked, "Where?" She pointed toward the bathroom. Isidore stood up to check, and she followed behind, saying, "I don't have a wrench to fix it." Isidore bent down to examine the break. "Is there a convenience store nearby?" Eloise replied, "There's a 24-hour one at the corner of the street."
Isidore returned with the tools, but the door to Eloise's apartment was tightly shut. Outside, the documents he had brought for her to sign lay quietly on the ground. He silently curled his lips, knowing exactly what had happened. Without bothering to knock, he leaned against the door, sitting down with his long legs folded, taking out a cigarette to smoke.
Whether Eloise had ever considered killing him in that moment, he never troubled himself with that question. Charlie always emphasized that she had a motive. So what? Who could say their heart didn't harbor even a small, less-than-innocent thought? As for why he hadn't seen her for over a month, the answer was simple: because he was too scared.
It might be hard for anyone to believe, but even "Mr. Kingswell" had things he was too afraid to do. But this was the real answer.
Lysander spoke of the darkest, most shameful past in front of her. Even if the reasons behind it seemed fabricated and pieced together, what confidence did he have to explain it all to her? How beautiful was the truth, after all? Just the thought of seeing the confusion in her eyes about his dark past made him feel intense disgust for himself—perhaps it would have been better if he had just given up resistance and let Lysander kill him back then.
He had already become a muddled, rotten person. How many things had he done for Mr. Ravenscroft over the years that even he could not stand to look at?
He had avoided her for so long. He wanted to see her, but was too afraid to. She left decisively, but he could not let go.
But now he had figured it out. He could lay everything bare, place it before her, in exchange for a little closeness and warmth. He might not be much of a person, but the wealth and power he possessed still carried weight in the eyes of the world. Whatever she wanted, as long as it was within his power, he would do his utmost to fulfill it.
And his range of capabilities, at least for now, was still considerable. He picked up the documents, brushed off the dust, and carefully put them away. Then he lifted his gaze to the peephole, as if he could see through it, catching a glimpse of the scene inside.
It didn't matter if he couldn't figure things out right away; after all, he was in no rush. He could keep her company until she agreed.
