Just as Catherine dropped her gaze to the floor, the man's calm, resonant voice drifted toward her.
"When you stop expecting too much from something," he said slowly, "you also stop getting disappointed."
Catherine blinked, confused, lifting her eyes to him. He looked back at her without a ripple of emotion.
"Love," he added, "and family—are both the same."
A dull ache spread across her chest. It was then she realized—he was telling her not to let Channing's betrayal destroy her.
Yes… if she hadn't hoped, she wouldn't have been hurt.
It was her own foolishness—still hoping that Channing might remember they shared blood, still hoping he might show a shred of mercy.
She found herself staring at the man across from her. He stood tall, composed, every line of his body exuding the restrained strength of a grown man. His presence seemed to shrink her tiny living room, making the air feel a little too thin.
His voice, low and steady, had a strange calming effect. The heavy emotions surging in her heart began to settle, like mud sinking in clear water.
For the first time tonight, Catherine felt… less alone.
And then, out of nowhere, he asked, "Do you have anything to eat at home?"
She froze. For a moment, she genuinely thought she had misheard.
He met her stunned look and explained, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, "I left the restaurant directly. I haven't eaten. I'm hungry."
Catherine snapped back to her senses—and guilt quickly followed. He had skipped his meal because he'd driven her away from that disaster.
"There's food," she said hastily. "But it's not cooked. I'll need a little time to prepare. Can you wait?"
She realized she was hungry too. In her grief, she'd forgotten to eat.
He nodded simply. "That's fine. But make something quick. Something that cooks fast."
"Oh. Okay." She hurried off toward the kitchen, putting the ice pack back into the fridge. There was no time to worry about swelling.
After she was gone, Bert glanced toward the refrigerator, his eyes narrowing almost imperceptibly.
Catherine worked quickly in the narrow kitchen.
She was cracking eggs into a bowl when she heard the kitchen door open behind her. Turning, she saw him walking in—holding the ice pack she had just put away.
"You go ice your face," he said. "I'll cook."
He stood in front of her, close enough that the air seemed to thicken, and held out the ice pack.
Catherine nearly dropped the bowl. "No, no, it's fine! I can do it. You should wait in the living room."
She couldn't let a guest cook—especially not a man like him. He looked like someone who had never needed to lift a finger in his life, someone born into wealth and privilege.
But he didn't listen. He set the ice pack down, took the bowl from her hands, and leveled a serious look at her.
"Go ice your face."
The authority in his tone sent a shiver through her. She hesitated, but then took the ice pack from him obediently. Her face still throbbed; if the swelling didn't go down by morning, Renata would see everything.
As she turned to leave the narrow kitchen, his tall frame blocked half the passageway. She had no choice but to angle her body, brushing lightly against his chest as she passed.
A clean, cool scent enveloped her. Catherine's ears burned.
She scurried out, pressing the ice pack against her cheek as if it could cool the rest of her face too.
From the kitchen came the sound of a knife striking the cutting board—steady, practiced.
Catherine paused in the hallway, stunned.
He… actually knows how to cook?
She didn't know what she was feeling.
But whatever it was, it didn't hurt.
It was the middle of the night.
A single man and a single woman, alone under the same roof. Not only that—he was practically a stranger, someone she barely knew, and yet he was currently standing in her kitchen, cooking a meal as if he belonged there.
What on earth was happening?
After icing her face for a while, Catherine got up and went to the bathroom. She stood in front of the mirror and finally saw the damage with her own eyes for the first time since she had come home.
Her breath caught.
Half of her face was swollen. Her skin was naturally pale, which only made the bruising and fingerprints stand out even more.
Channing's fingerprints.
She bit down on her lip hard to stop the tears threatening to fall.
That was her father—the man who had given her life.
And tonight, he had almost taken it away.
When she came out again, Catherine pressed the ice pack to her cheek and made her way to the kitchen. She pushed the door open and saw his back first—tall, straight, wrapped in a perfectly fitted black shirt that traced the lines of his broad shoulders and strong back. His light gray slacks outlined his powerful legs, and his waist-to-hip ratio was…
Catherine blinked, horrified at her own thoughts.
What on earth am I thinking?!
She had come here to ask if he needed help, not… visually undress him.
Just as she struggled to pull her eyes away, his voice floated over, low and casual, still facing the stove.
"Something wrong?"
Catherine nearly bit her tongue.
Thank goodness he hadn't turned around. If he had seen where her eyes were… she'd have to throw herself out the window.
She quickly blamed Riley—her best friend and part-time corrupter of souls. Riley was a model, surrounded all day by gorgeous male models with bodies crafted by the gods. She was used to sending Catherine voice notes and messages with entirely too much detail about abs, V-lines, and whatever else she considered 'artistic appreciation.'
This is Riley's fault, Catherine told herself. I've been mentally poisoned.
She cleared her throat to regain some semblance of dignity. "Do you… need any help?"
"No," he replied simply.
The sizzle of the pan filled the silence. His answer left no room for argument.
Catherine stood there awkwardly, ice pack pressed to her face, unsure whether to stay or flee.
The man didn't even glance her way, replying with a curt two-word response as his hands moved deftly, flipping the vegetables in the pan.
Perhaps it was just his natural charisma, because even something as mundane as cooking looked captivating when he did it.
Catherine stood there, hesitating, then finally mustered the courage to voice the question that had been brewing in her mind since he mentioned eating here.
"Why… aren't you going back to the restaurant to eat?"
He didn't respond. He didn't look at her. He just kept working, as if her question had never existed.
But Catherine knew he had heard her—his eyebrows had twitched ever so slightly right after she spoke.
So what did that mean? He heard her, yet ignored her, treating her words like the wind passing by? Wasn't that a little… disrespectful?
She pressed on. "Leaving your… girlfriend, or your… lover, alone over there… isn't that a little… wrong?"
Catherine couldn't shake the feeling that him staying to eat here was inappropriate. And yet, since he had helped her, refusing him would feel ungrateful. If he had a family, it would feel even more improper.
After her words, he finally turned his head, squinting at her with those deep, unreadable eyes.
"Girlfriend? Lover?"
He looked genuinely puzzled, and Catherine, feeling even more flustered, hurried to explain.
"Yes… at the hospital earlier, seeing how nervous you were around that pregnant girl, and just now… the way you spoke on the phone…"
That tender, protective tone… wasn't that how one spoke to the woman they loved?
She finished, and his gaze darkened, complicated, unreadable, before he parted his lips and said simply:
"That's my sister."
Catherine—"…."
The warmth that had just faded from her cheeks flared back tenfold. Embarrassment prickled through her like fire.
She let out a small, awkward laugh, muttering something under her breath, then spun around and bolted from the kitchen, cheeks burning with humiliation.