Better Late, But Never His Again novel Chapter 42

Hazel Garrison stepped out of the luxury hotel, the cool night wind immediately sweeping over her. She stood on the curb and took a deep breath, letting the chilly air fill her lungs.

She flagged down a taxi, gave the driver Dr. Queenie Finch's address, and sank into the backseat, closing her eyes.

Her mind was an absolute mess. Too much had happened tonight. She had truly witnessed what raw power looked like; maybe men like Marcus Thornton really didn't have any real problems in the world.

The cab pulled up in front of the familiar small building in the older district. Hazel paid the fare, pushed the door open, and looked up to see a warm, golden light spilling from the second-floor window. Queenie was still awake.

A soft warmth bloomed in her chest as she hurried up the stairs.

The door was unlocked. The moment she pushed it open, the comforting aroma of a home-cooked meal greeted her. Queenie was sitting on the living room sofa reading a book, her reading glasses perched on her nose. At the sound of the door, she immediately stood up.

"You're back?"

She hurried over, her eyes scanning Hazel from head to toe, her gaze filled with deep concern. "Nothing happened, right?"

Hazel offered a reassuring smile and casually hung her purse on the entryway hook. "You worry far too much. What could possibly happen? It was just a corporate gala."

Queenie grabbed her hand, leading her to sit down on the sofa, dropping her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "Marcus Thornton isn't a good man. I was so worried he might try something with you..."

Unbidden, the memory of the dim lighting in the lounge flashed in her mind—the man's bare, sculpted chest, and the heat of his large hand enveloping hers. Hazel's cheeks flared with a sudden, inexplicable heat.

She lowered her eyes, her voice sounding a pitch too unnatural. "It was nothing, Queenie. He just wanted to show me the ropes at these high-society events."

Queenie looked at her closely. "You must be starving."

With that, she stood up and bustled toward the kitchen, bringing out the dishes. "I saved some dinner for you."

Hazel followed her and saw a plate of hot food and a bowl of fresh soup on the dining table. The food was completely untouched, clearly prepared specifically for her.

Queenie nodded. "Don't stay up too late."

...

Back in her room, Hazel sat in front of her laptop, meticulously cross-checking the day's research data. Once she confirmed everything was accurate, she saved and archived the files.

Finished, she stood up, stretched her stiff muscles, and glanced out the window. She checked the time and was surprised to see how late it had gotten.

Suddenly feeling too wired to sleep, she shut down her computer and quietly crept downstairs, careful not to wake Queenie.

The neighborhood was dead silent, bathed in the dim, yellowish glow of the streetlights. She walked slowly along the pavement, her mind wandering through a tangled web of thoughts.

Everything in her life seemed to be moving in a better direction now, yet there was a persistent, hollow ache in her chest, as if a vital piece was still missing.