After lunch, Wren left for work, leaving Elizabeth alone in the still room.
Thankfully, the sedative she’d been given was mild, leaving no lingering effects. A blend of hydration, relaxation, and a hearty meal had her feeling like herself again in no time.
Following a rejuvenating shower, she slipped into a fresh, modest long-sleeved nightgown. Leaning against the headboard, she picked up the script for Agarwood and began rehearsing her lines with quiet resolve.
Experiencing the story she’d written through an actress’s perspective revealed new insights, as if she were peeling back the layers of her creation to uncover hidden meanings.
Time, as it often does when one is engrossed in creativity, sped by. Before she knew it, the sun had surrendered to the deep shades of dusk.
The rhythmic drumming of heavy rain began outside, enveloping the room in a cocoon of isolation, making it feel like a lone island in a turbulent sea.
Her thoughts were interrupted by a knock at the door.
Assuming it was Wren or perhaps Asher bringing dinner, she walked to the door with the script still in hand, her mind elsewhere.
But when she opened it, she was met with an entirely unexpected sight. Elijah stood there, rain-drenched and intense. Her brow knitted as she lowered the script, blurting out, “Why are you here?”
Elijah, wearing only a wet white shirt that clung to him like a second skin, revealing the defined contours of his frame, raised an eyebrow.
His tone carried a hint of irritation. “Who were you expecting?”
Before the tension could escalate, Oliver stepped forward, filling the doorway like an unwelcome referee. “Ms. Sophia, Mr. James was hit by a falling branch and needs ointment for his injuries.”
Elizabeth’s gaze flicked to the streaks of mud on Elijah’s shoulder, her lips pressing into a thin line.
Without a word, she turned and went to retrieve the ointment, her movements deliberate and precise. Elijah followed her inside uninvited.
Her steps hesitated briefly as she glanced back at him.
Since he was already inside, protesting further felt pointless. She just wanted him treated and gone.
“I’ll get the report from Mr. Gray,” Oliver announced from the doorway.
Elijah acknowledged him with a slight nod.
Turning to Elizabeth, Oliver added, “Ms. Sophia, please assist Mr. James,” before closing the door, leaving no room for objection.
Elijah sat on the bed’s edge, his posture exuding an air of entitled expectation. His legs sprawled casually, suggesting he felt completely at ease in her space. Elizabeth refused to humor his presumptuousness. With precise movements, she tossed the ointment toward him. “You can reach your shoulder on your own,” she said sharply.
Pulling up a chair, she placed herself at a calculated distance and resumed reviewing her script. She acted as though he wasn’t there, her gaze fixed resolutely on the pages before her. A flicker of dissatisfaction crossed Elijah’s intense eyes. His unwavering stare stayed on her as he methodically began unbuttoning his shirt—each motion deliberate, every button a quiet challenge.
