𝐑𝐎𝐂𝐊 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐋𝐃 𝐀𝐅𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐋𝐃

30.

"Why aren’t you wearing clothes properly? Do you want to catch a cold?"

His harsh words cut through the air, completely shattering the seductive atmosphere I’ve been working so hard to create. The playful, alluring scene I had crafted in my mind dissolves in an instant, leaving me standing there, feeling slightly ridiculous. I was just suppressing the urge to smirk and throw out something bold like, "Like what you see?"—the kind of flirty, shameless line the male leads in those smutty novels always use. But now, any internal satisfaction I was building up is dashed by his immediate disapproval, as if he’s completely immune to my efforts.

Why is this man not focusing on the right things, ah?! A sexy, beautiful woman in nothing but an oversized shirt and panties is cooking for him at the crack of dawn, and he’s worried about me catching a cold? I can’t believe it. No wonder he ended up being the villain—he's utterly missing the point!

His frown deepens, completely oblivious to the intention behind my whole setup, and I can’t help but feel a mixture of frustration and disbelief. How is this possible? Shouldn't he be at least a little flustered? Even the stone-cold villains in the novels back in my world would be moved by now.

But Wilde? He’s more concerned about the temperature than me. Ridiculous!

...

“The pants were too loose on me,” I say, flashing him a mischievous grin. Fine! If he doesn’t want to appreciate my beautiful legs, then I’ll show them to someone else. Internally, I roll my eyes, trying to swallow the disappointment, and turn back to the stove to add the finishing touch to the congee.

I reach for the green onions, the final garnish, when suddenly I feel his arms wrap around my waist. I freeze for a moment, completely caught off guard, before I’m lifted off the ground like a rag doll, his large hands gripping me as if I weigh nothing. My feet dangle uselessly in the air as he hauls me out of the kitchen.

The warmth of the kitchen fades as he carries me through the narrow hallway, his steady, unyielding stride thudding across the wooden floor. I catch a glimpse of the living room—the soft glow of morning light spilling through the windows—before I’m unceremoniously dumped onto the couch. My body bounces lightly against the cushions, a soft “oomph” escaping my lips as I land, the ridiculousness of the situation hitting me all at once.

Without giving me a chance to voice a single complaint, Wilde’s command cuts through the room, sharp and absolute. “Stay.” His tone is firm, leaving no room for argument or defiance. It’s the kind of order that demands obedience, the weight of it settling over me before I can even think to respond.

He turns and strides out of the room, disappearing into his study. I hear the faint shuffle of papers and the soft thud of drawers opening. When he returns, he has a pair of drawstring pants and socks in his hand. Both are well-worn, the fabric slightly frayed at the edges, the kind of clothes that have seen better days. He tosses them onto my lap without a word, the silent message in his eyes clear as day: Put them on. Now.

I pick up the pants, holding them between my fingers. The material is soft, clearly used—probably clothes from a few years back, and the plain style makes me wrinkle my nose in distaste. “Do you want me to look ugly in these?” I ask, a grimace twisting my lips. The words come out petulant, even though I’m secretly thrilled to be wearing something of his. It feels intimate in a strange way, like a secret only the two of us share.

A part of me can’t help but imagine what the suitors from my original world would say if they saw me now. After rejecting the advances of countless wealthy men, I’m here, feeling butterflies over the actions of a villain. If they knew, they’d be outraged! I almost laugh at the absurdity.