Ch53 - Tension

At the doorway, Violet saw Lydia already stepping inside — ignoring the staff, walking straight in as if she owned the place.

Violet intercepted her halfway. “I’m sorry, Julian’s asleep. You should talk to him tomorrow.”

The moment Lydia saw her, her eyes widened. “You… how—”

“How what?” Violet asked evenly.

Lydia’s expression tightened, her voice snapping sharp. “I mean I need to speak to Julian right now. It’s urgent. I’ll go to his room myself — don’t get in my way.”

“I’m afraid that’s not happening,” Violet said flatly, tone firm as steel.

“YOU—” Lydia’s face twisted with anger. “If this gets delayed, can you handle the consequences?”

“Then tell me what it’s about,” Violet replied coolly.

Lydia scoffed. “PLEASE. You don’t even know half of what’s going on. Julian told me himself he doesn’t tell you everything. So you’ve got no right to stick your nose in.”

Violet froze for half a second, then smiled faintly. “If you think I’m unqualified, then call his assistant. If it’s really urgent, they’ll reach him right away.”

Lydia’s brows shot up. “YOU’re unbelievable. You want me to waste time making phone calls when I could just talk to him? Move. Out of my way.”

Violet didn’t move an inch.

The tension between them was thick enough to cut.

Two maids, caught between the two women, hesitated awkwardly. Lydia shot them a sharp look, and one of them flinched, unsure whether to obey the long-time family friend or the current lady of the house. The other, equally nervous, called for backup.

Moments later, the butler Mrs. Jones appeared.

Seeing her, Lydia’s eyes lit up. “Finally! Tell this woman to step aside. I need to see Julian.”

Mrs. Jones, composed as ever, greeted her politely before glancing at Violet — then turned to Lydia with her usual, measured smile. “I’m sorry, Miss Lydia. Mr. Ashford is resting. We take orders from Mrs. Ashford now.”

Lydia’s face hardened. “Do you even know who you’re talking to? Julian’s always let me come and go as I please. He wants me here.”

“Yes,” Mrs. Jones said evenly, giving a small bow. “That was before. I apologize, but unless Mr. Ashford gives direct instructions, we can’t allow anyone upstairs. If that offends you, I’m sorry.”

The words hit Lydia like a slap. Her face flushed with humiliation and anger. But beneath the fury, there was panic — her eyes darted up the staircase again, then back down. “This really is important,” she said, voice softening, almost pleading. “Just fifteen minutes. Please.”

“Julian was very clear before he went to bed,” Violet said calmly. “No one goes into his room. So I’m sorry — you’ll have to come back tomorrow.”

Lydia’s composure cracked. Her voice rose, sharp and ugly. “You bitch—”

“Please escort Miss Lydia out,” Mrs. Jones cut in smoothly, her polite smile turning cold as ice. She nodded to the maids. “And do be careful.”

Then, turning back to Lydia, she added sweetly, “Forgive us if we’ve offended you tonight.”

“Miss, this way please,” one of the maids said, gesturing toward the open door with a slight bow.

Four calm, expressionless faces looked back at Lydia. Her fury burned in her eyes, but she could do nothing — she couldn’t force her way in, not with all of them standing there. And now, even Mrs. Jones — who’d always been cordial to her — had taken Violet’s side.

Lydia’s jaw clenched. “Fine. Fine. All of you—remember this. When Julian wakes up, we’ll see who’s still standing here. You’ll regret this.”

Mrs. Jones’s smile didn’t falter. “Good evening, Miss Lydia. Sleep well.”

Before Lydia could retort, Violet had already turned away and started upstairs.

After washing up, Violet felt the sting in her neck start to dull. Mrs. Jones soon arrived with the first-aid kit and carefully disinfected the small cut. Thankfully, the wound wasn’t deep—barely half a finger long. Still, the sight of it made Violet’s stomach tighten when she thought about what could’ve happened.

She was grateful—if Julian hadn’t reacted so quickly when her call went through, if he hadn’t sent his assistants to find her right away, she didn’t even want to imagine what that lunatic Liam might’ve done.

As Mrs. Jones packed away the medical supplies, Violet hesitated for a moment before asking, “When he comes home like that—after drinking—what do you usually prepare for him?”

The question came out sounding casual, but her mind was racing. Something about tonight didn’t add up: Julian’s odd behavior in the car, the way he’d shifted from cold to almost tender in seconds, and then Lydia showing up at the house looking pale and nervous.

Something must’ve happened between them after they left the table.

Mrs. Jones, unaware of Violet’s thoughts, answered in her usual calm tone, “We usually bring him some hangover pills and a glass of iced water with mint and lemon. I’ll get that ready now.”

Violet reached out, lightly holding her arm. “It’s fine—I’ll take it to him myself.”

Mrs. Jones paused, then smiled knowingly. “Of course, madam.”

Violet lifted her hand to knock gently on the door, the tray balanced carefully in her other arm — a glass jug of chilled lemon-mint water, a bowl of ice, and a small pack of hangover pills.

No answer.

After waiting a few seconds, she turned the handle and eased the door open.

The room was quiet.

She stepped inside and shut the door softly behind her. The suite was large; she had to walk around a tall screen before she could see the main area. The bed was empty. 

To the right, in the lounge space, a dim floor lamp cast a golden glow across the room — and the mess. The mini-fridge door hung wide open, empty bottles littering the floor among small puddles of water.

Violet set the tray down on the coffee table and took a few cautious steps toward the walk-in closet. Beyond it, she could hear the steady hiss of running water.

The shower.

A moment later, the water stopped.

Julian appeared, a towel slung loosely around his hips, droplets of water sliding down his shoulders. The second he saw her, his body went still — every muscle tightening as if he’d been caught off guard.

His voice was low and hoarse. “What are you doing here?”

It wasn’t his usual smooth tone; there was strain in it, something taut and controlled.

Seeing him on his feet eased her worry a little. “I brought you some hangover pills. They’re on the table,” she said gently.

He didn’t move. His eyes lifted to hers, but the only light came from behind him — the bathroom doorway — so his face was half-shadowed. She couldn’t read his expression, but she could feel the tension radiating off him.

She blinked, pushing down the unease that crawled up her neck. “Just… remember to take them. I’ll get out of your way.”

“Mm.” The sound barely left his throat.

She turned to leave. Behind her, his footsteps followed — slow, deliberate, closing the space between them.

Violet felt the air shift, a coldness brushing over her skin, and when she glanced back, he was right behind her. His body looked chilled from the shower, yet the heat in his gaze made her breath hitch.

“You’re sure you’re alright?” she asked quietly.

Their eyes met, and Julian’s pupils tightened. Heat shot through him again, tearing past what little control he still had.

She had no idea how tempting she looked — that loose robe slipping just enough to bare her forearms, the faint scent of soap and warm skin drifting toward him.

Every breath of it made him want to lean in, to taste the softness she didn’t even know she was showing.

He didn’t mean to move, but his body acted on its own — a flicker of impulse and need. His breath came heavy, uneven.

Violet turned away first, hurrying to the table. She picked up the packet and shook two pills into her palm. “Here. Take these,” she said, holding them out to him.

He extended his hand, palm up. When her fingers brushed his skin as she dropped the pills in, he clenched his fist — hard — a muscle ticking in his jaw. His eyes were molten, dangerously so.

She hesitated, then tried to defuse the moment. “I’ll get you some ice water,” she murmured, turning toward the tray.

She had just started to exhale — thinking maybe the tension had passed — when his hand shot out.

His fingers wrapped around her wrist.

Before she could react, he pulled her sharply toward him. The world tilted, her breath caught — and the next thing she knew, she was in his arms.

His skin was cool from the shower, but his body radiated heat; it hit her in waves. She gasped softly, caught between shock and confusion.

Then his hand came up, tilting her chin.

And before she could find words — his lips crashed down on hers, hot, desperate, and wordless.