Chapter 630 Scandal Between Samuel and Zenobia Exposed 1
"Medium-well," Taylor said.
Julian's eyes darkened, a flicker of something unreadable passing through them. "Medium-well it is."
His voice had that low, velvety timbre that could have passed for a whisper meant for a lover's ear. Heat crept up Taylor's neck before she could stop it, followed quickly by irritation.
Was this how he charmed every woman he met? No wife, no apparent attachments—did he just... do this?
He caught the faint storm on her face and smiled, infuriatingly at ease.
"Lyra," he called to the housekeeper, "tell Taylor how virtuous I am."
Lyra laughed. "Already did, sir. I remember my lines."
Julian's smile was infuriatingly open, as if he had nothing to hide.
Taylor's annoyance didn't stand a chance. Not with Luna clinging to her arm, looking up with those soft, honey-sweet eyes and calling her name like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Julian winked at his daughter. Taylor could only stare at him, speechless.
Dinner was good—better than she'd expected. The Learmond Mansion's dining room had a warmth that matched the food.
Luna didn't need anyone to fuss over her; she sat happily with a big bowl of food. Taylor noticed Julian had made steak for the adults, but fried chicken for Luna.
As a doctor, she'd seen the worst of people, and more than her share of men who didn't care for their children. Julian was not one of them.
Something in her chest softened. She glanced at him. He was rolling up his sleeves, and when he caught her looking, he gave her a small smile.
She had to admit—his looks outshone his cooking.
The rest of the meal passed quietly.
Afterward, Julian excused himself to deal with some business, and Luna dragged Taylor away to see her bedroom.
It was in the south wing, right next to the master suite. Julian had left the door ajar that morning, so Taylor caught a glimpse—vintage record player, stacks of vinyl, a few oil portraits of movie stars on the walls. It was exactly what she'd expect from a single man's space.
Luna's little hand was warm in hers. Taylor's heart melted. Things hadn't been going well in either her love life or Avery's, and the Montague family still had no children.
She'd always had a soft spot for kids, sometimes carrying candy in her coat pocket to give to young patients.
And Luna... Luna was impossible to resist.
They toured her room, and Luna proudly brought out her collection of picture books, snuggling into Taylor's side and insisting she read to her. Taylor indulged her in everything.
By the time she had to leave, Taylor was reluctant. But she knew she couldn't get too close to Julian. At eight-thirty, she stood to go. Julian didn't try to stop her.
He walked her to the car himself. Luna kissed her cheek, smelling faintly of soap and summer, and Taylor kissed her back. Julian handed Luna to Lyra, then opened the car door for Taylor. She couldn't resist hugging the girl one last time.
Once inside, she glanced out the window. Julian buckled in and looked over. "She's adorable, isn't she?"
Taylor still felt the sting of being maneuvered into this evening, but she only murmured something noncommittal.
He studied her profile, then said quietly, "If you ever had a daughter, she'd be just as beautiful."
It was... almost too intimate.
Taylor didn't answer. He didn't seem to mind, starting the engine and driving her home in silence. The quiet wasn't uncomfortable—just... still.
Since moving out of the home she'd shared with Samuel, Taylor had been living alone in a small apartment near the hospital. No live-in help, just occasional cleaning arranged by her secretary. Most meals she ate at work.
Half an hour later, the car stopped outside her building. Julian turned to her, his tone sincere. "Thank you for spending time with Luna today. She was over the moon. If there's ever another chance—"
"There won't be," Taylor cut in. "Julian, you know this is impossible."
The dim light in the car made his eyes seem even darker. He held her gaze for a long moment before saying, "I said 'if there's a chance.' I didn't say now. I won't pressure you."
Something in her chest gave way. She'd told herself for years she didn't need a man.
Samuel's neglect hadn't broken her. But when Julian said, "I won't pressure you," it hit her—she couldn't remember the last time someone had treated her gently.
Samuel had poured all his warmth into someone else, leaving her nothing but crumbs.
She didn't speak. Just reached for the door handle. Julian seemed to sense her mood and stayed in his seat.
"Goodnight," he said gently.
She stood in the night air, watching the sleek car glide away. A gust lifted her long hair, brushing it across her cheek. She reached up and realized her hair tie was still in Julian's car. A cheap thing. She didn't care.
She was just stepping into the building when she saw him—leaning against the milk delivery cabinet, his face shadowed, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "Have a nice date?"
Taylor's brows drew together. Samuel.
In the narrow, dimly lit corridor, they faced each other like strangers. Whatever vows they'd once made were long forgotten.
After a beat, she walked toward the elevator. "Samuel, you've learned to accuse others to cover your own guilt? I'm not as petty—or as filthy—as you. Don't project your rot onto me."
The next second, he shoved her into the elevator, pinning her in place.
All she felt was disgust.
Her laugh was sharp, cold. "Touch me and I'll make sure you end up in jail. There are cameras in every corner here. Think about your billion-dollar company. Think about your precious mistress. You'd better think twice."
"I didn't cheat," he said, voice low and ragged, like a wounded animal. "I didn't sleep with Zenobia. You saw what you saw, but it wasn't that. I never betrayed you, never betrayed our marriage. Don't be with Julian. He's after something."
Taylor didn't answer.
Explaining would only make him think she cared. She shoved him away, told him to get out, but he'd lost control. He grabbed her, bent his head to kiss her, his hands rough and insistent.
He wanted to erase Julian from her mind. He wanted her to remember she was his wife.
She wanted none of it.
She had ended their relationship the day she walked out. Her fingers closed around the pepper spray in her bag, and she fired a stinging stream straight into his eyes.
Samuel reeled back, clutching his face and swearing. She drove her foot into him for good measure, then stepped into another elevator without looking back.
Inside her apartment, she leaned against the door, breathing hard. She'd given up on Samuel long ago. He just didn't believe it.
Her phone was full of missed calls and messages from him. She'd had it on silent all afternoon. The sight left her with a dull ache.
In a marriage that had already broken, there were no victors—only survivors.
She thought of Julian—how different it felt to be treated with care. He would make a good partner.
Downstairs, Samuel had washed his face, but the burn still lingered. It was cold out, but he didn't want to go home.
That house was empty except for two servants. So he stayed, waiting, determined to keep Julian away. She might not want him, but she was still Mrs. Collins.
A black Bentley pulled up under the streetlight. Samuel leaned against it, black coat blending with the night, wind tugging at his hair. He was handsome—he'd always been handsome.
That was part of why she'd married him when he had nothing. But he hadn't valued her. He'd let their marriage fade until she slipped away.
His eyes were red. He waited all night, until eight the next morning, when Taylor came down to catch a cab.
"I'll drive you to the hospital," he said, stepping in her path.
She glanced at his clothes, noting he hadn't changed. "Fine. You're headed that way anyway."
The jab landed. He waited until they were in the car before muttering, "I have a meeting this morning."
She didn't care. She pulled out her phone, playing a new mobile game, enjoying the rare moment of idleness.
"Stop seeing Julian," Samuel said, trying for calm. "If you don't want to move back, I'll move here. We can start over. Please."
She looked at him slowly. "Did the pepper spray fry your brain?"
He swallowed his anger. His phone rang—Quentin. He answered curtly, ready to hang up, but Quentin's voice was urgent.
"Mr. Collins, the video of you and Zenobia is all over the internet."
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