Better Late, But Never His Again novel Chapter 7

Leaving the Institute, Hazel hugged the painting to her chest and immediately drove toward Sycamore Lane in the West End, following Queenie's directions.

Sycamore Lane was exactly what it sounded like—a narrow, winding alley.

She had to park her car at the entrance because it was too tight to drive through. Clutching the painting, she started walking. The deeper she went, the narrower the alley became. Glancing back, Hazel was startled to realize how far she had walked. This alley was incredibly deep.

At the very end of the lane sat a standalone courtyard. A dim yellow lantern hung by the entrance, illuminating a faded wooden plaque carved with a single character.

Hazel knocked, but there was no answer, so she pushed the door open and walked in.

The courtyard was dark, with only a warm, amber glow spilling from the house.

A man sat in a chair with his back to the door. His silhouette was tall and broad-shouldered, leaning back in an impossibly relaxed posture. Yet, there was a commanding, aristocratic aura radiating from him that felt completely out of place in this rundown courtyard. The dim lighting caught the sharp, predatory angles of his profile.

Hazel hesitated. She hadn't expected the eccentric master restorer Queenie described to be such a young man.

She took a deep breath and said softly, "Hello."

The man looked over, but the light was too poor for her to see his face clearly.

Hazel hugged the painting tighter and took a few steps forward. "Excuse me, are you the restorer?"

He looked up, and the moment their eyes met, Hazel's breath hitched.

The man was strikingly handsome, with a sharp brow bone and lips pressed into a thin, tight line. His eyes were as dark and deep as a freezing lake, narrowing slightly as he looked at her. A faint, almost imperceptible coldness radiated from his gaze, carrying an overwhelming sense of dominance.

The slightly tight button-down shirt he wore was completely at odds with his formidable aura.

Hazel instinctively gripped the painting tighter.

The man cast a glance over her, his eyes landing on the scroll in her arms. His voice was low and magnetic, yet dripping with absolute frost.

"What painting?"

Hazel snapped out of her daze and quickly placed the painting on the counter in front of him, carefully unrolling it.

"This was ruined by accident, and I was hoping you could restore it. My mentor recommended you and said your work was flawless, so..."

The man cut her off, clearly impatient. He frowned slightly, his eyes locked onto the canvas.

"How was it damaged?"

His gaze was far too piercing. Hazel swallowed hard and lowered her eyes. "It was an accident."

Zachary leaned back in his chair and looked at her blankly. "You're lying."

Hazel's chest tightened, but she forced her voice to remain steady. "It's just a painting. I have no reason to lie."

The man simply repeated those two words. "Please leave."

Hazel was on the verge of losing her temper. This wasn't eccentric; this was just being completely unreasonable.

But she couldn't leave. She had to fix this painting. It was all she had left of Charles.

Taking a deep breath, Hazel swallowed her surging emotions and unrolled the painting again.

"My mentor left this to me on his deathbed. Yesterday, my husband's ex-lover moved into my house. She messed with the painting and destroyed it, and I want it fixed."

She paused, a heavy lump forming in her throat. "That's the truth. What else do you want me to say?"

As her words faded, the courtyard fell dead silent for a few seconds. Hazel looked up, meeting those bottomless eyes, her own eyes shimmering with unshed tears.

Zachary stared at her for a long moment, then slowly stood up and walked toward her.