Chapter 9
507words
I paused, then delivered each word like a dagger:
"But wasted on me? It's like playing chess with a monkey."
"I, Amanda Lawrence, prefer honest men to manipulative tacticians."
My words struck his pride like a blade between the ribs.
The color drained from his face in an instant.
All his careful calculations, his performances, his pride—shattered by a few simple words.
I'd been watching Robert's little game. At first, I thought he might have saved me to get back to Jessica. But his subsequent act—playing the wounded hero, the suffering martyr—was straight from every trashy romance novel I'd ever read. The classic "win back your lover through noble suffering" routine. I just never expected to be cast as the "lover."
When I figured it out, I was almost impressed, and I reconsidered our entire history.
He'd never actively harmed me. In the beginning, I'd pursued him relentlessly while he never gave clear encouragement. His greatest sin was using me as a stepping stone and being dishonest about his feelings for Jessica.
And, well, his face still perfectly matched my aesthetic preferences.
But while he hadn't physically hurt me, he'd wounded my pride and my heart deeply.
I've never been one to forgive easily. He hurt me, so he deserved to hurt back. I'd thought his punishment would come through Jessica's rejection, but apparently, it was coming through me instead.
So I decided to roast him thoroughly—but perhaps not burn him completely to ash.
After that night, Robert Lawrence changed.
He abandoned his schemes and his theatrical coughing fits. He tucked away his cleverness and calculations, becoming a silent, awkward shadow.
I didn't drive him away. But I didn't speak another word to him either.
My journey continued.
We crossed a swamp where my horse became mired in mud. Without hesitation, he leaped into the muck, straining with all his might to free my mount.
He emerged covered head to toe in filth, looking like a drowned rat, yet said nothing.
We ran out of provisions in the mountains. While Samuel and I hunted, he remained at camp attempting to build a fire.
When we returned with game, we found him staring helplessly at smoking kindling, his scholar's hands covered in angry blisters.
When he noticed us, he quickly hid his hands behind his back.
Once, I suffered a minor sword cut on my arm.
That evening, he appeared outside my tent with medicine, standing there for ages without daring to enter.
Finally, Samuel snatched the medicine from him and brought it inside. "Amanda, the poor bastard really seems sorry."
I dressed my wound without looking up.
"I know."
That day, we crested a mountain peak.
The setting sun hung low, painting the sky in molten gold.
I reined in my horse and glanced back. On the winding path below, that white-robed figure sat astride his mount, gazing up at me.
The road ahead stretches far, and my story—our story—is only beginning.
