Master of his heart (Brielle and Max)

The car door clicked shut softly, and the vehicle eased into the night. He watched her silhouette in the rearview mirror, shrinking until it disappeared into the darkness.

Inside the car, a warm light flickered on, casting a cozy glow over the leather seats. He reached into his black coat and pulled out a broken fortune stick, now clumsily mended with glue. The crack was still there, mocking his helplessness. He turned the stick over to see four words engraved in the wood: "Perfect Match Made in Heaven." Even the soothsayers at Radiant Light Church could spin a tale, it seemed.

Brielle braved the drizzle, heading back to her hotel. From a distance, she saw Max under a black umbrella, deep in conversation on his phone. As she neared, he instinctively tilted the umbrella to cover her.

His face was grim, and it was clear that the conversation was serious-likely about the Dorsey family. The hotel manager, a blonde foreigner, stood nearby, waiting for Max's instructions.This text is © NôvelDrama/.Org.

Brielle stayed silent, sensing the tension. Max seemed colder than usual, perhaps due to the wet, chilly air. His fingers, pale against the silver umbrella handle, showed no warmth.

After he ended the call, he gave her a quick glance but didn't ask where she'd been. Someone else approached, reporting that they'd lost someone.

"Hmm," Max responded indifferently, handing off the umbrella and switching to English to speak with the hotel manager. From their conversation, Brielle gathered that this hotel belonged to Max. Soaked from the rain, she followed him into the hotel room in silence. Before she could explain herself, he asked, "Are you cold?"

She was, and her breath came out in visible puffs. He went to the bathroom and started running a hot bath.

"This is my private room. Take a bath," he said, implying that everything here was clean and untouched by others.

Brielle stepped into the bathroom and sank into the tub, her mind a whirl of thoughts. His lack of questions made her uneasy.

Wrapping herself in a towel after the bath, she stepped out to find him ready with a hairdryer. She sat down, and he gently undid her hair, drying it with meticulous care.

After several minutes, her hair was completely dry. Through the mirror, Brielle saw him lift a strand of her hair to his nose, inhaling the scent of her shampoo, free of any trace of blood. While winding up the hairdryer's cord, he said, "Dustin's been spotted. Will you come back with me tomorrow?"

She barely nodded before he pinned her to the couch. She tried to speak, to explain, but he didn't give her the chance.

Exhausted and on the verge of sleep,

she glimpsed him dressing and answering another call. It was Andrew, telling him that Kenzo had announced his retirement and would no longer appear in public.

"Max, I can't find him. Can you?" Andrew asked.

Max's gaze lowered as he toyed with a lighter, sparking a flame. "No."

Andrew sounded urgent. "I don't get what he's thinking. He's not just leaving the limelight; he's stepping out of the whole Beaconsfield scene for good."

Kenzo's sudden move had indeed

shocked their close-knit circle. Max

paused, then flicked the lighter

again, the custom grey metal catching the light. With a subtle smile, he said, "Out of the four of us, you've always been the most innocent."

Andrew, puzzled, was about to ask more, but Max ended the call. Andrew was known for his

straightforward nature, rarely hiding his feelings. Unlike Jaired, unlike Kenzo, and certainly unlike Max.

Taking a cigarette, Max lit it but didn't smoke, holding it idly between his fingers. Then, a pair of arms wrapped around his waist, and Brielle's cheek pressed against his back. "I'm sorry," she whispered.