Chapter 81: The Phone Call

Catherine had never been someone who hesitated to answer a call, unless she was working.

But this call…

Her heart thudded against her ribs, loud and uneven, as if something inevitable was about to arrive and she was not ready to face it.

She stared at the screen.

For a moment, she almost let it ring out.

If she let it go to voicemail, she could postpone it—delay him, delay this feeling, delay the way her chest tightened at just seeing his name.

But then she would have to call him back.

And that would be worse.

So she answered.

She opened her mouth to speak, then glanced at the sleeping baby and quietly slipped out of the bedroom before letting her voice out.

“Mr. Blackwood? Hello. I hope your Sunday is going well.”

Her tone was polite. Deliberately so, as a gentle reminder that it was Sunday… and that she was not particularly pleased to be disturbed.

And yet… a small, traitorous part of her was delighted that she still refused to call him by his name.

Her lips curved faintly.

Would he ask her again?

Would he coax it out of her this time?

Would he… beg?

He had never begged in his life. He had always stood above others, composed, controlled, powerful.

The smile froze on her lips.

Her gaze had lifted… and found Maximilian on the couch, watching her.

Watching her.

And suddenly that sharp, piercing discomfort returned, lodging itself beneath her ribs. A strange, twisting sensation of guilt, of being caught. Of… cheating.

“I’ve been expecting your call all day,” Dorian said, his voice a low, lazy hum… like he was stretched out somewhere comfortable, speaking to her with half-lidded eyes.

“Hello? I can’t hear you well, Mr. Blackwood. Excuse me for a moment,” she said quickly.

She stepped out of the living room, through the front door, and sat on the front steps, putting distance between herself and the weight of Maximilian’s gaze.

“You were saying?” she asked.

Silence.

Then…

“You’ve learned well to keep me on edge, Katerina.”

Her hand rose unconsciously to her chest, pressing against the rapid beat of her heart. She wanted to ask him why he called. She wanted to end the call.

She wanted… not to feel like this.

But no words came.

So she sat there, phone pressed to her ear, listening to the faint sound of his breathing.

“Say something,” he murmured. “Let me hear your voice.”

There was something in his tone… something low, coaxing, dangerously intimate.

“I was relaxing,” she said, keeping her voice light, distant. She wanted this conversation to end.

Whatever the rules of dating of this era were, she knew this much: kissing one man in the morning and speaking softly with another in the evening did not feel right.

“You’re no fun,” he said, almost lazily amused. “You have my number. I was waiting for your call. I had to go looking for your number myself.”

Catherine said nothing.

Her mind felt… scattered.

Between Maximilian and Dorian, she no longer knew where she stood or how she was meant to act.

She was tired.

“If this is regarding the research, you should speak to Dr. Renfield—”

She had to tighten the cord around Ashley a bit.

“Boring!” he cut in, sharp and sudden.

She pulled the phone away for a second, staring at it.

Was this truly the same man? The composed, calculating king she had known? Why did he sound like an impatient, reckless boy?

“What do you want me to say?” she asked finally, the words slipping out in quiet defeat.

There was a brief pause.

Then…

“Tell me you’ll marry me again.”

Her breath stilled.

“This time,” he continued, softer now, “we’ll do it properly. According to tradition.”

Her throat tightened.

Maximilian had said something similar.

But… Why did Dorian’s words feel like a chain… while Maximilian’s felt like a plea?

“This time?” she echoed. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Mr. Blackwood.”

She had never allowed herself to think about that first night. About how it had felt. About how little choice she had been given. She had buried it. Locked it away. And she had no intention of opening that door again, or relive it.

“Mr. Blackwood,” she said, forcing steadiness into her tone, “I’m sorry. I have another meeting to attend. I’ll call you later.”

A quiet sigh came through the line.

“You’re not going to call me back,” he said, almost lightly. “Let’s be honest.”

Catherine remained silent. She would not promise what she did not intend to give.

“Meet me in my office on Wednesday, Dr. Preston.” His voice shifted—deeper, firmer, unmistakably professional. “I have something important to discuss with you.”

The sudden change startled her.

But if this was professional… If this was work…

Then she could face it.

“Which time would be preferable for you, Mr. Blackwood? Shall I coordinate with your—”

“Call me when you reach the corporate office, Dr. Preston. I’ll schedule everything else around you.”

Her fingers tightened slightly around the phone.

He would… move his entire schedule for her?

“Yes,” she said softly.

And ended the call without ceremony.

—

Dorian stared at the dark screen of his phone for a long moment.

Then he chuckled.

The sound was quiet, low. But the smile didn’t last.

His gaze shifted to the photographs laid across his desk… images of Catherine with Maximilian. Shopping. Holding the baby. Standing too close.

Domestic.

Familiar.

His expression hardened, the warmth draining from his face as his finger traced slowly over her image.

Over her face.

Over the curve of her shoulder.

He picked up his phone again.

“Find out where William Preston will be tomorrow,” he said, voice calm and absolute.

The call ended.

Dorian leaned back in his chair, eyes darkening.

“You’ll be mine this time too… my queen.”

—–

Catherine stared at her phone, her thoughts in complete disarray.

Dorian’s voice still lingered in her ears, low and dangerous, and she could not tell whether her racing heart was from anger, fear, or something far more complicated.

A soft wind brushed past her, lifting strands of her hair. The faint fragrance of the garden flowers drifted through the air, clashing with the sharp chill of approaching winter. The contrast unsettled her. Sweetness and cold. Warmth and frost.

Just like her life.

It was Sunday.

The one day she always called her family.

Perhaps she should do it now. Perhaps hearing something normal… something safe, would steady her.

Before she could unlock her screen, the door behind her opened.

She stiffened.

Maximilian stood there. Her heart skipped.

Was he trying to overhead their conversation? How long was he there?

“It’s getting cold out here,” he said quietly.

There was no accusation in his tone. Only concern.

He stepped closer and draped a throw over her shoulders with surprising gentleness. Catherine quickly flipped her phone face down, her lips forming a faint, defensive pout.

His gaze dropped to the phone. Then back to her. He looked as though he wanted to ask something.

The question hovered between them, unspoken and heavy. But he swallowed it.

Instead, his own phone chimed.

The sharp sound shattered the fragile stillness.

He glanced at the screen. And his expression changed. His brows lifted slightly, not with surprise but with alarm.

“Come with me.” His hand closed around her wrist, not painfully, but urgently. “We need to go to the Whitmore mansion.”

Catherine blinked. His touch was warm: too familiar, too grounding

“What? Why?”

He was already pulling her toward the road, his movements brisk.

“My grandfather summoned your brother.”

Her steps faltered.

“My brother?”

“Alexander,” Maximilian said, turning to look at her properly now.

There was no teasing in his eyes. No arrogance. Only tension.

“Why?” she asked, her voice thinning.

She had no idea.

Alexander kept his head down. He avoided unnecessary attention. He would never deliberately provoke the Whitmores.

Unless…

Her stomach tightened.

Maximilian’s jaw was set, his usual composure fractured by something dangerously close to panic.

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