"You guys go eat first. The competition starts tomorrow."
"Okay." The team quickly dispersed and headed to the restaurant.
Nathaniel Fu lifted his hand, his bony knuckles rapping against the bathroom door. "Celia, open up."
Inside, Celia froze at the sound of his deep voice. He was back already.
Suppressing the urge to vomit, she rinsed her mouth, steadied herself, and opened the door.
Nathaniel's sharp eyes swept over her pale face. "What's going on? They said you were sick—that you threw up?"
Afraid he might suspect something, Celia quickly shook her head. "It's nothing serious. Probably just the climate here. I'll be fine after washing my face."
She turned on the faucet, splashing cool water over her cheeks.
Nathaniel stepped inside, closing the door with his elbow. His tall frame leaned casually against the door, but his eyes stayed fixed on her, unblinking.
Celia turned, startled to find him so close. A nervous flutter rose in her chest. Was he suspicious?
"Why are you staring at me like that? Let's go out." She tried to slip past, but he blocked her way, fingers suddenly lifting her chin, forcing her to look up.
Her eyes were still rimmed red, fragile from the nausea. That delicate look made something tight coil in his chest—an urge to pull her against him, to keep her there.
"What's wrong?" he pressed, voice low. "Still sick?"
Her heart skipped. "I told you—it's just the climate."
His lips curved, eyes narrowing slightly. "Does it hurt?"
"…."
Relief washed over her. At least he wasn't suspecting pregnancy.
Her face flushed crimson, and she swatted his hand away, glaring before shoving past him to open the door.
—
At dinner, the table was filled with exquisite dishes. But Celia's appetite had disappeared; she didn't want a bite.
Nathaniel sat across from her, watching. "Why aren't you eating?"
"I'm not used to the food here. I don't feel like eating much."
Nathaniel picked up a few lighter dishes and placed them in her bowl. "Then just eat something simple."
Celia opened her mouth to refuse, but he leaned back with a faint smirk. "Or do you want me to feed you?"
Her mind flashed to that day in his lounge at Yecheng, when he had spoon-fed her on his lap. Her pulse spiked. There were so many people here—he wouldn't dare… right?
Biting her lip, she lifted her chin in a show of defiance. "Fine. Then feed me."
Nathaniel set his chopsticks down and began to rise.
"No!" Celia panicked. Her hands shook as she snatched her own chopsticks and stuffed a mouthful of rice into her mouth.
Nathaniel sneered, straightened, and strolled toward the floor-to-ceiling window. With a flick, he lit a cigarette, smoke curling lazily upward.
Coward, his smirk seemed to say. She never followed through when it mattered.
But as the smoke drifted closer, Celia's stomach lurched again. She couldn't stand the smell. Without hesitation, she walked over, snatched the cigarette from his fingers, and stubbed it out in the ashtray.
Her eyes met his, unwavering. "Nathaniel, please don't smoke."
The room fell silent.
Nathaniel froze, staring at her in disbelief. No one had ever dared take a cigarette out of his hand before. His brows drew together, a shadow passing across his face. But when his gaze returned to her flushed cheeks and the stubborn glint in her eyes, the anger faded.
Something heavier pressed against his chest instead—an ache he couldn't name.
His Adam's apple shifted as he leaned closer, voice low and hoarse. "Celia, you're the only one who dares to tell me what I can or can't do."
Her lashes fluttered nervously, but she didn't back away.
Nathaniel's eyes darkened, the restrained fire in them dangerously close to sparking. He braced one hand against the back of her chair, caging her in. His voice dropped further, rough as gravel.
"Remember this—when you touch me, you don't get to walk away."