Quentin tore through the remaining paperwork, finishing in just over an hour. Ignoring Secretary James—who was still fruitlessly trying to persuade him to review two more urgent files—Quentin stood up and went to find Amanda.
When he found her, he was rooted to the spot.
In the heart of the sprawling rose garden, a girl more radiant than the blossoms themselves stood in a fluttering skirt. She was moving attentively between the bushes, plucking flowers and placing them into a small wicker basket.
Quentin remembered the year he had decided, on a whim of sudden inspiration, to personally cultivate this garden just for her. He had never dared to hope he would see the day she actually stood in the middle of it, carefully selecting each bloom.
His heart raced, though his expression remained a mask of calm as he walked toward her. "If you wanted flowers, why didn't you ask a servant to pick them? What if you prick your finger like last time?"
Amanda placed a fresh rose in her basket before turning to look at him. "Don't look at me as if I'm some delicate girl with weak hands and soft legs."
She smiled, bringing a rose to her nose. A sudden breeze caught her long hair, sending stray strands dancing against his shoulder. Quentin smiled back, catching a lock of her hair and leaning down to catch its faint, sweet scent.
"Last night, you were calling my name," he teased gently. "Why did you go back to calling me 'Uncle' the moment you got out of bed?"
Amanda's smile stiffened, and her face flushed a deep crimson. In a fit of embarrassed pique, she shoved the rose she was holding into his chest. "I'll call you whatever I like! What are you going to do about it?"
She huffed, struggling to find a retort, before snatching up her basket and marching toward the house. It wasn't that she didn't want to call him by his name; she was just mortified. In the heat of the previous night, she had lost her composure—but she wasn't about to admit that now.
Quentin looked down at the mangled flower in his hand and laughed out loud. He ignored her feigned anger and followed close behind. "Are you really mad at me?"
Amanda didn't bother answering. She knew he was following her, but she kept her eyes forward as she entered the house. She asked a servant for paper and ribbon, determined to arrange the bouquet herself.
Quentin didn't just stand by. He picked up a pair of shears and began helping her trim the stems. "Who are these for?"
"I want to bring some flowers for Grandfather!" she replied lightly, accepting a trimmed stem from him.
She caught the look on Quentin's face—his eyebrows slightly raised, a knowing smile playing on his lips. She realized her slip of the tongue and coughed awkwardly, quickly correcting herself. "I mean... for Dad. Since we got married, we haven't visited him once."
Quentin's smile deepened as he handed her two more roses. "Why didn't you tell me sooner? I would have picked them for you. It's too sunny for you to be running around the garden."
Amanda felt a flutter of warmth at his concern, but she kept her lips pursed in a pout. "And whose fault is that? You never mentioned going home!"
Quentin went silent, unable to argue. It wasn't that he had forgotten; he had deliberately avoided the subject because he was terrified she wouldn't want to visit his family as his wife.
Seeing him stunned and silent, Amanda waved a hand in front of his face. "Guilty conscience? Less staring, more pruning!"
Quentin regained his composure and looked at her with a mix of affection and resignation. He quickly finished trimming the roses so she could bundle them into a lovely, rustic bouquet.
"Butler Wayne will be back with the other gifts shortly," Quentin said, admiring her handiwork. "Then we'll go to the main house for dinner."
"You already prepared gifts?" Amanda asked, surprised.
Quentin looked at her, his heart swelling. He hadn't expected her to take this visit so seriously. Did this mean she finally respected their marriage?
Amanda shot him a look of mock contempt. "Did you really think I'd go to see my father-in-law empty-handed? You ask too many questions. Go get the car."
The Harris main house sat on the outskirts of the city, a quiet sanctuary for Elder Harris, who preferred peace in his old age. With Quentin's sister abroad and both Quentin and Dylan moved out, the sprawling villa was usually silent, inhabited only by the old man and his staff.
As their car pulled up, the sun was sinking low, painting the ancient, noble architecture in streaks of dark red and gold. It was a scene of nostalgic beauty.
Quentin stepped out and walked around to open Amanda's door, taking her hand firmly in his. He had a faint, content smile on his lips—until they stepped through the front doors.
The smile vanished instantly.
Inside the grand foyer sat a "happy" family of three: Javier Harris, Dylan, and Tiffany. They were chatting and laughing with Elder Harris as if they owned the place.
Amanda's expression didn't flicker, but her eyes turned like ice as she met Tiffany Harris's gaze—a look so filled with venom it seemed like she wanted to devour Amanda whole.