Chapter 4 Mom Can't Enter the Men's Room

When Rowan Blackwood spotted Marielle Duvall in the distance, his whole body shuddered. That figure, that walk—it was uncannily like Marielle's! He found himself moving toward her, deliberately brushing against her. Victor Langley was stunned. He'd never seen Rowan Blackwood initiate contact with a woman before. Especially after Mrs. Blackwood's tragic accident five years ago, Rowan had turned into an icy fortress, making people instinctively keep their distance. For him to approach someone like this was utterly unheard of. He couldn't help but look at Marielle again—and was instantly struck by her beauty. Her face was breathtakingly perfect, as if sculpted by an artist—every feature in flawless proportion, nothing excessive, nothing lacking. Rowan wasn't the only one stunned. But he quickly regained his composure. His brow twitched, and he instinctively stepped back, coldly saying, "Watch where you're going." Marielle Duvall let out a silent, bitter laugh. This face of hers now was nothing like her former self. She still remembered the searing pain of flames on her skin, still remembered enduring nine months of agony to protect the child inside her, only undergoing reconstructive surgery after giving birth. Night after night, she woke from nightmares, again and again, her pillow damp with tears. Now the man responsible stood right before her. Her hands clenched—she longed to tear his face off, rip out his heart, and see what color it was. She wanted to scream: Do you even have a heart? She held the half-finished lollipop Nolan Duvall hadn't finished. The moment Rowan brushed against her, it smeared onto his suit. Smiling, she said, "Sorry, I really didn't see you. Your suit's dirty—let me replace it. Got your number? I'll have a new one delivered." Her voice was slightly hoarse, low and raspy. A flicker of disappointment crossed Rowan's eyes. It wasn't her. Not just the face—her voice was wrong too. He remembered Marielle's voice—bright and clear, like a skylark's song. This woman, though stunning, had a voice that was deep and husky. To others, it might be alluring. To him, it meant nothing. Rowan's face hardened into ice. "Keep it. Just a suit." With that, he shrugged off his jacket and tossed it into a nearby trash can, right in front of Marielle, as if discarding something filthy and loathsome. The corner of Marielle's lips lifted. To Rowan, she was probably just another woman trying to flirt, fishing for his number. She watched his back with cold amusement, wondering what he'd look like when he realized she was the designer he was about to meet. Rowan felt a sudden surge of anger—though he couldn't name why. That woman wasn't Marielle. So why did she feel so familiar? No. It wasn't her. If Marielle had seen him approach her, she'd have been over the moon. He knew how she felt about him. But this woman's eyes showed no flicker of emotion. Yet those eyes—so much like Marielle's. Rowan suddenly stopped. Victor, caught off guard, slammed into his back. "Sorry, Mr. Blackwood!" Rubbing his sore nose, Victor stepped back—and only then noticed Rowan's gaze locked on Marielle. After their brief encounter, Marielle had gone straight to the restroom. Her stride and gait made Rowan's eyes narrow again. "Mr. Blackwood, you interested in that woman?" Rowan shot Victor a sharp look, and Victor snapped his mouth shut. "I'm going to the restroom." Rowan didn't know why, but he was restless, agitated. He turned sharply and strode toward the restroom. Victor rarely saw Rowan like this and didn't dare follow—just waited outside. Inside, Rowan turned on the faucet and splashed water on his face, trying to clear his head—when he felt a tug on his coat. He frowned, turned—and saw a boy, about four or five, staring up at him. The boy's right hand gripped the hem of his jacket, as if about to speak. "Let go." Rowan's eyes turned cold. His presence usually made people back away, but the boy didn't flinch. Those eyes—familiar. "Mister, can you help me?" Nolan Duvall looked straight at Rowan. That innocent, pleading gaze softened something inside him. "Where's your grown-up?" "My mommy can't come into the men's restroom!" Nolan pouted, his cheeks slightly flushed. Looking at the boy—like a porcelain doll—Rowan sighed. "What do you need?" "My zipper's stuck, and I really gotta go, mister. Can you help me unzip my pants?" As he spoke, Nolan rubbed his legs together, clearly on the verge of bursting.