Chapter 558 Taking Care
"Watch your step," Emma whispered, struggling to support his tall frame.
Michael suddenly stopped, turning to gaze at her. His eyes, unfocused from the alcohol, were unusually intense. "Why'd you come back?"
Emma avoided his gaze. "Let's get you to bed first."
She helped him off with his coat and shoes, then poured a glass of warm water. Michael leaned against the headboard, watching her every move as if trying to etch the scene into his memory.
"Drink some water," Emma said, handing him the glass.
Instead of taking it, Michael grabbed her wrist. "Don't go."
His grip tightened, making Emma wince. Using his drunken strength, he pulled her closer, his other hand securing her waist, causing her to fall onto the bed beside him. Their faces were now so close she could count his eyelashes.
"Michael, you're drunk." Emma tried to pull away, but he held her even tighter.
Michael's nose brushed against her neck as he took a deep breath, his voice hoarse. "I'm not drunk, I just..." His lips barely grazed her sensitive earlobe. "I miss you."
Emma shivered, her fingers clutching the bedsheet. Sensing her hesitation, Michael's lips moved to her neck, his hot breath making her heart race.
"Don't do this," she protested weakly, her voice more of an invitation than a refusal.
Michael suddenly flipped her onto her back, propping himself up on one arm beside her head. His shirt was unbuttoned, revealing his chest, and his hair fell over his eyes. The mix of alcohol and his usual woody cologne was intoxicating.
"Look at me," Michael commanded, his fingers gently tracing her cheek. "Tell me, can you really forget about me?"
Emma's fingers dug into his shoulder, her breathing quickening. She could feel his firm chest pressed against her, every muscle tense. This position was too dangerous; she should push him away, but her body betrayed her.
"Seraphine and Lucas are waiting for me," she whispered, her voice barely audible.
Michael's eyes darkened, and he suddenly bit her collarbone. Emma gasped, her fingers tangling in his hair, unsure whether to push him away or pull him closer. The possessive gesture made her weak, her mind screaming warnings.
"You want me too," Michael's lips moved along her collarbone to her neck, his tongue teasing her pulse. "Why lie to yourself?"
Emma snapped back to reality, using all her strength to push him away. "Enough!" She scrambled off the bed, straightening her disheveled clothes. "Michael, we shouldn't be doing this."
"Why not?"
"For Seraphine's sake," Emma said softly, caressing Michael's head. "We have Seraphine, which means I didn't reject you, but now, I really don't want this."
Michael sat on the bed, his eyes clear despite the supposed drunkenness. He slowly buttoned his shirt, a bitter smile on his lips.
Seraphine.
God knows, Seraphine wasn't even his daughter!
It was all a lie to Emma!
They never had anything between them!
Emma grabbed her bag to leave, but Michael caught her wrist from behind. His voice now carried a genuine hint of drunkenness. "Don't go, at least stay until I fall asleep."
Michael's vulnerability struck a chord in Emma's heart. She turned to look at the usually strong Michael, now looking like a child afraid of being abandoned. Logic told her to leave, but her feet wouldn't move.
"Just five minutes," Emma conceded, sitting back down on the chair by the bed.
Michael lay down but stubbornly held onto her hand. His eyelashes cast delicate shadows under the light, his breathing gradually evening out. Emma watched him quietly, her fingers unconsciously tracing the lines on his palm.
When the clock struck half an hour, Emma gently withdrew her hand. Michael's eyelashes fluttered, but he didn't open his eyes.
"Goodnight, Michael," she whispered, not seeing the tear that slipped from the corner of his eye as she turned to leave.
As the office door closed, Michael opened his eyes. There was no trace of drunkenness, only deep, unending pain. He sat up, pulling a real bottle of whiskey from the drawer, this time intending to drink himself into oblivion.
When Zachary walked in, he found Michael disheveled, sitting on the carpet, leaning against the sofa, with an empty bottle beside him.
"She left?" Zachary's usual carefree expression was gone.
Michael let out a cold laugh, throwing the empty bottle against the wall. The glass shattered, scattering like stars in the moonlight.
"You knew this would happen," his voice was hoarse. "Why did you call her?"
Zachary crouched down to meet his eyes. "Because I couldn't stand seeing you like this." He was unusually serious. "Pretending to be drunk, playing the victim, provoking her—Michael, when did you become so childish?"
Michael's eyes sharpened. "Get out."
Instead of leaving, Zachary grabbed Michael's collar. "Get a grip!" he shouted. "Is it worth destroying yourself over a woman?"
Michael swung a punch, catching Zachary off guard and sending him stumbling back. Wiping the blood from his lip, Zachary suddenly laughed. "That's more like you."
They ended up wrestling on the office floor, expensive decor crashing around them. Finally, exhausted, they lay on the ground, panting.
Zachary got up, dusting off his suit. He glanced at his watch, a knowing smile on his lips. "I have a date. I'm leaving." At the door, he looked back at Michael, still lying on the floor. "Oh, and I called Celeste Phillips to take care of you."
Michael sat up abruptly, his eyes flashing with anger. "Who told you to call her?"
Zachary shrugged. "Someone has to clean up your mess." With that, he closed the door.
Michael grabbed a nearby bottle to throw, but it was already empty. Frustrated, he yanked off his tie and walked to the floor-to-ceiling window. The city lights blurred into a haze before his eyes.
Half an hour later, the office door opened quietly. Celeste, in a simple white dress, her long hair cascading down her back, entered with a thermos. She frowned at the mess.
"Michael," she called softly, her voice as gentle as a feather brushing against the heart.
Michael didn't turn around, his voice cold. "I told you not to call me that."
Celeste bit her lip, setting down the thermos and starting to clean up the broken glass. Her movements were careful, as if afraid of disturbing something. When she picked up a shard, it cut her finger, and blood immediately welled up.
"Leave it," Michael said, finally turning to face her. His eyes softened slightly at the sight of her bleeding finger. "I'll clean it up."
Celeste shook her head, determined. "No, you shouldn't have to deal with this alone."
Michael sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Why do you always have to be so stubborn?"
Celeste smiled faintly, wrapping a tissue around her finger. "Because someone has to be."
Michael watched her for a moment, then walked over and took the shard from her hand. "You're too good for this," he muttered.
Celeste looked up at him, her eyes filled with concern. "And you're too good to be destroying yourself like this."
Michael's expression softened further, and he pulled her into a gentle hug. "Thank you," he whispered. "For always being here."
Celeste hugged him back, her voice barely audible. "Always."
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