Chapter 31: Grant's Brow Arched Slightly

Grant's brow arched slightly.

"Dare to register my fingerprint?" Paige pointed at the door lock, her eyes rimmed red like a rain-soaked puppy. "I've waited for you here so many times. Look at these mosquito bites on my arms and legs..."

She counted the red marks on her skin, her voice trembling with pitiful grievance.

Grant sighed softly. "I can't bear it."

"Perfect!" Paige instantly brightened. "Honestly, I just want to visit you openly."

The man chuckled. "Still acting like a child..."

He lowered his head to register her fingerprint.

Remembering the millet congee she'd brought and the rash covering her skin, Grant pulled a card from his wallet. "Supplementary card. Monthly limit of $100K. Buy whatever you like."

Paige shook her head frantically. "No, I can't—"

"Take it." His tone brooked no argument. "My woman spends my money. That's how it should be."

"Then... fine." Her eyes sparkled. "I'll bring you more congee tomorrow!"

"No need." Grant's voice was flat.

If it didn't taste like memory, drinking it was pointless.

* * *

Outside the library, Clara closed her notebook.

Owen truly lived up to his reputation as the former double champion—his study notes hit every key point. She'd wanted to treat him as thanks, but his roommate had called him away, so they rescheduled for tomorrow.

The June wind carried waves of sweltering heat.

Stepping into her apartment, the AC instantly dispelled the summer's oppression. Clara opened the fridge, retrieving broccoli, asparagus, and ribs.

No matter how busy life got, one should always eat well.

As garlic broccoli sizzled in the pan, a faint rustling came from outside. She peeked out to find the cleaning lady tidying the hallway.

The next morning, Clara arrived at the library precisely on time, carrying soy milk and fried dough sticks.

Owen accepted the breakfast awkwardly. "This is too much..."

"Reciprocity." She smiled, heading toward their usual window-side spot.

Sunlight spilled through the glass onto the textbook pages. Clara's focused profile resembled a still-life painting—until her peripheral vision caught Paige approaching alone. Her brow furrowed slightly.

Paige's gaze prickled like needles against her back.

The pen scratched softly across paper. Clara never looked up. Her page-turns were featherlight, the fall of her hair perfectly poised.

Even Paige had to admit the silhouette was breathtaking.

Was this why Grant couldn't forget her?

Clenching her pen, Paige recalled that day at the haunted house—Grant shaking off her hand, sprinting toward Clara without a backward glance.

But now she was the official girlfriend.

She couldn't lose.