Chapter 5: A New Breeze in My Crumbled World
"Okay, I'll do as you've said, Mr. Husband," Frances teased, laughing softly, her eyes glinting with playful mischief.
Raymon paused at the door, her voice echoing in his chest. His fingers clenched briefly at the frame before he left for his study.
He felt… hot.
Not from anger.
Not from the weather.
It was something else—something foreign. Frances' laughter, her half-exposed thighs, the way she had looked at him—it stirred something deep in him. Something he had never truly felt before.
His doctor had always told him he was fine. "You're perfectly healthy, Mr. Raymon," the man had said on multiple visits, when Raymon expressed concern about his lack of desire or connection with women. He never doubted his masculinity—but he questioned why nothing ever moved him.
Until now.
Frances had broken that stillness in him.
He picked up his phone and called Sky.
Elsewhere in the City…
Marcus poured wine into Charlotte's glass, the chandelier above them casting a golden glow over their little victory celebration.
"Finally," she purred, swirling her drink. "We've gotten rid of the devil, haven't we?"
Marcus chuckled, draping an arm over the back of her chair. "Yes, baby. Let's forget about her. Tomorrow, I'll bring the house documents. It'll officially be yours."
"Awww, thanks, honey." She leaned in and kissed him, slow and deep, until both were gasping for air.
"Let's register our marriage tomorrow," he said, out of the blue.
Charlotte froze for a moment, shocked. "Huh? Finally? You really mean that?"
"I remember when I begged you in the past to marry me, and you told me not until Frances was out of the way." She smiled slyly. "Well… looks like your wish came true. Come on, baby, let me take you to the room."
Marcus laughed. "Room for what? Hmm? I'm not going—"
"Oh, you're going." She giggled, jumping up and running. He chased after her like a boy smitten, lifting her in his arms and carrying her into the bedroom, their laughter echoing through the house.
The Next Day…
In a small café nearby, Mrs. Stompson sat with a group of women from her social circle. She took a slow sip of tea, her nose slightly raised.
"Mrs. Stompson, we heard your son is now the CEO of a company," one of the women said with forced enthusiasm. "Is that true?"
"Of course," she replied, beaming with pride. She reached into her designer purse and pulled out a handful of business cards. "If your poor children ever need a job, here's his company info. Just tell them I sent you."
The three women forced polite smiles, but exchanged uncomfortable glances. They had heard the rumors. That Marcus had stolen someone's property, that the "company" wasn't rightfully his. But job opportunities were scarce. Even if it was dirty money… it was still money.
They picked up the business cards one by one.
No one said a word.
Meanwhile… Back at Raymon's Estate
Frances had been asleep for 13 hours. When her eyes fluttered open, confusion greeted her first. The ceiling, the smell of cedar and linen—it wasn't her room. She sat up cautiously, scanning the large space.
Where were her things?
Then the memories trickled in like water through cracks—Kay, the gun, the blood, the man who saved her...
Her heart skipped.
She stood and walked carefully to the wardrobe. There, neatly arranged, were her bags.
Relief flooded her.
Inside those bags were the last pieces of her parents—their photographs, letters, and a worn pendant. Things she couldn't afford to lose.
"Oh God… I thought I'd lost everything," she whispered, sitting back on the bed with a shaky sigh.
Her head still felt cloudy, like smoke from a fire not yet put out. She made her way to the bathroom. Maybe a cold bath would bring clarity.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
Paris tapped gently on the door. "Sleeping Beauty?" she joked softly to herself when there was no answer.
She let herself in and heard the sound of running water. Smiling, she waited.
When Frances stepped out moments later in a robe, startled to find a stranger in her room, Paris greeted her with a warm smile.
"Hi. I'm Paris—Raymon's sister. You're in my brother's house. He brought you here last night." She gestured to the bed. "Mind if I sit?"
Frances nodded politely.
"I don't know the full story between you two, but you're safe here," Paris continued. "And… this is the first time I've ever seen my brother bring a woman home."
Frances blinked. First? She glanced at Paris, unsure how to respond. But something in the woman's gentle eyes told her she meant no harm.
"Thank you, ma…" Frances began.
"Don't call me 'ma'," Paris laughed. "I'm not your aunt. Just Paris, okay?"
Frances gave her a soft, reluctant smile.
Paris reached over and squeezed her hand. "Dress up and come down for breakfast. I came to fetch you. We're waiting."
"I'll be right there."
Downstairs…
"Good morning, ma," Butler French said with a small bow as he passed Frances on the stairs.
"Good morning, sir," she replied shyly.
As she stepped into the dining room, her eyes landed on a familiar figure. The same man from the night before. The one who had saved her. Cold. Precise.
Raymon.
He was seated at the head of the table, arms crossed. Paris sat beside him, sipping orange juice.
"Good morning," Frances greeted.
Raymon didn't even look up. "Hmm. Good morning."
Paris watched, amused at his cold front.
"There are fresh vegetables, and some French fries too," she said quickly, trying to warm the mood. "Everything was made by Butler French. You'll love it."
Frances sat quietly. "Thank you. I appreciate it."
Raymon watched them. His gaze fell on Frances' arm—a faint blood stain seeping through her sleeve. The wound must've reopened.
She let water touch her wounds? Does she not know how to take care of herself? Does she even understand how close she was to death yesterday?
His jaw tensed.
What a foolish woman.
Frances suddenly became aware of his stare. She looked down and saw the bloodstain spreading.
She froze.
The man across from her—her savior, her mystery—wasn't looking at her with kindness.
He was watching like she was a puzzle.
Or a mistake.
Raymond's gaze was fixed on the bloodstain soaking through her sleeve. She hadn't even bandaged the wound properly.
"She's reckless," he thought.
But what unsettled him more was the way his heart had clenched when he saw her in pain.
He stood up suddenly.
Frances flinched, startled.
"Come to my study after breakfast," he said coldly, but something flickered behind his eyes.
"A deal needs to be made."
And with that, he walked out of the room—leaving her and Paris in stunned silence.