Chapter 90: Dorian’s Move

“Yes, I have to…” Catherine’s voice trailed off.

She didn’t owe him an explanation. She could keep it simple. Vague. Distant.

But after a beat, she chose otherwise.

“I need to hear what he has to say,” she said, meeting his eyes.

The meeting had to be professional. Strictly professional. Dorian Blackwood controlled the resources she needed: labs, funding, a full research team. She had only scratched the surface of her work. With the right facilities, she could finish what she had started.

And the Blackwood name could open doors that even the Prestons could not.

There was also the other matter.

He had expressed interest in marrying her.

She had no intention of accepting. But she needed to say it clearly, face to face. Draw a clean line. End that possibility properly, then see if they could work together without personal entanglements.

It was fortunate she made him believe that she had no memory of the past.

That made things… simpler.

“Why?” Maximilian asked.

The bluntness in his tone made her blink. “Excuse me?”

A flicker of irritation stirred in her chest. She did not belong to him. He was not her husband. Not her guardian. Not her keeper.

Why should she justify herself?

“Have you decided to marry him?” he pressed, reaching for her hand.

His fingers closed around hers—colder than usual, tighter than usual. Not painful, but firm enough that she felt the tension in him.

She looked up.

And the sight startled her.

He looked… unsteady. Agitated. On edge. Like a man standing at the brink of losing something he could not afford to lose.

For a fleeting second, she thought she should feel frightened.

But she didn’t.

“I told you I’m not marrying anyone,” she said, her voice rising before she forced it back down. She inhaled, steadying herself. “I’ve realized I don’t need a husband to succeed. Strategic collaboration with influential people is enough. I’m a Preston. I have more than enough resources.”

Her acquaintance with Sebastian had changed something in her. Strengthened her spine.

Marriage, especially a contractual one, was not the only path forward.

Maximilian’s grip loosened. He let her go.

“My sister is returning on Wednesday,” he said after a moment. “We’re having a family dinner that night.”

Catherine blinked.

Right.

Asking him to accompany her to meet the man who had been her husband in a previous life was awkward.

But her attending his family dinner when she wasn’t even officially his girlfriend?

That was equally absurd.

She exhaled slowly.

This bracelet had complicated everything.

“I don’t mind having dinner with Dr. Morcant,” she said carefully. “She won’t… misunderstand?”

“She already thinks you’re my girlfriend,” Maximilian replied calmly. “She won’t mind.”

Catherine’s jaw tightened.

“You can’t just claim—”

“I already did,” he cut in with a shrug.

For a split second, she genuinely considered throwing a pillow at his head. Or something heavier, like an anvil.

“So mature,” she muttered, shaking her head. “Are you free in the morning or afternoon? We’ll need to go to BioQuant’s headquarters.”

“You’re meeting him at the office?” His brows lifted, suspicion threading his tone.

“Yes. It’s a business meeting. He likely wants to discuss hiring me.”

Maximilian gave a low scoff. “We’ll see. Something will ’come up.’ He’ll suggest continuing the conversation at some upscale restaurant or—”

“Why are you like this?” Catherine snapped, cutting him off.

She had seen children bicker like this—nieces and nephews squabbling over nothing.

But this was a grown man.

Why was he acting like this with her? Like he did when they were kids in their previous life?

She had accompanied him for days, played assistant, supported him without complaint. Was it too much to ask for him to accompany her once?

Arcturus, sensing the rising tension, slipped quietly off her lap and padded out of the room.

“You scared off the dog,” she shot at Maximilian. “Dorian is meeting me at his office. He even said he’d arrange his schedule around my visit.”

If he wanted to be petty, she could be theatrical.

Maximilian turned his face away with a sharp exhale. “You say his name… very easily,” he muttered.

Catherine didn’t get what he said. “What?” she asked.

Maximilian looked at her, his lips pressed and face annoyed. He was about to say something. Right then, the baby began to cry from the other room.

Without another word, he stood and went to attend to her.

Catherine remained seated for a long moment after he left, her pulse still uneven, her thoughts louder than the noise around her.

Then she rose, forcing composure back into her spine, and went to the bathroom to get ready.

When she stepped out again, the scent of butter and pepper greeted her.

Maximilian stood by the small dining table, sliding scrambled eggs onto two plates. Toast. Fresh fruit. Coffee already poured.

He glanced at her once. “Breakfast.”

That was it. No lingering argument. No sarcasm.

He even sat down and ate with her.

So he meant it about no longer being vegan.

She watched him take a bite, his jaw tightening slightly as though he were chewing something far tougher than eggs. His posture was too straight. His shoulders too rigid.

He looked like a rubber band stretched to its limit. One more pull and he might snap.

Catherine scoffed inwardly, stabbing a piece of toast with unnecessary force.

What was this mood?

Male PMS?

Whatever the equivalent was, he was clearly experiencing it.

And she refused to tiptoe around it.

—–

Meanwhile, at the The High Table Golf Society, William Preston stepped onto the manicured grounds with his caddy trailing behind him.

He was greeted immediately by a circle of men who had built empires from oil fields, shipping routes, logistics chains that spanned continents. Founders. Power brokers. The kind of men who moved markets with a phone call.

It was Monday morning.

No one here intended to actually play golf.

This was business, disguised as leisure. Scotch in crystal glasses. Polite laughter. Conversations layered with subtext.

They were midway through their usual exchange of “casual” updates when a figure approached from across the green.

Tall. Impeccably dressed. Too polished for the crowd. He looked as though he belonged at an equestrian gala more than a negotiation circle.

“I heard the heir of the Blackwood fortune joined today,” one of the men muttered.

William lifted a brow. “And what would he want here?” he asked dryly.

A Big Pharma heir did not typically seek camaraderie among oil magnates and logistics tycoons.

Unless he had a reason.

The young man stopped before them, a practiced, effortless smile curving his lips—charming enough to disarm, calculated enough to conceal.

“Dorian Blackwood,” he introduced himself smoothly, extending his hand.

William took it. “William Preston.”

“Mind if I join you?”

A faint pause.

“Of course,” William replied, gesturing lightly. The others nodded, introducing themselves in turn.

William gave his assistant a subtle look.

Find out why he’s here.

The assistant drifted away discreetly.

William swirled his glass, studying Dorian from beneath lowered lashes.

Pharmaceutical empire. International reach. Old money woven with new influence. There was only one plausible intersection between a Blackwood and a Preston.

Catherine.

If it were strictly business, Dorian would have approached her directly.

So why come to him?

Nearly an hour later, the assistant returned, leaning close to murmur an update while subtly angling a tablet screen toward him.

Photographs. Taken at Winthorp.

Photographs of Catherine, dancing with Dorian Blackwood. In every frame, her expression was different from what William was used to seeing. Not guarded. Not indifferent.

Interested.

It was faint, but unmistakable.

William’s lips curved slowly.

Ah. So, this is it. And it has already gotten to the stage of meeting the family.

Perhaps they would need to start wedding preparations sooner.

Their father would be extremely happy.

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