She wiped her tears with the handkerchief and was just about to speak when a sob hiccuped up her throat. Unable to hold it back, she let out an enormous hiccup.
Lola: "..."
Her face flushed a deep red, almost as if she could bleed from embarrassment. Her head lowered more and more, nearly touching her knees. Especially when she heard Mr. L's soft chuckle, she became even more embarrassed, her ears burning with heat. "You… stop laughing!"
"I'm not laughing at you," he said thoughtfully. "I just find you cute, like a little girl."
This well-intentioned compliment, however, irritated Lola. She lifted her head sharply, frowning, and said somewhat angrily, "I'm not a little girl!"
He, of course, knew she wasn't a little girl. She was a grown woman, a mature woman. But although her body was mature, her mind wasn't. To him, she was still a little girl, a young girl. He could be with mature women, but not with little girls.
Thinking of this, Villiers decided to change the subject, casually saying, "Alright, I know. But you still haven't told me why you like me."
Lola, still somewhat angry, muttered in a gruff voice, "Because you're handsome."
Villiers was taken aback. "That's the reason?"
"What else?" she snapped, still annoyed that he had called her a little girl. Her tone was rude and sharp. "You don't exactly look young, but if you weren't handsome, with such good taste, I wouldn't have liked you in the first place!"
After saying this, she immediately regretted her crudeness, and her toes nervously curled together. "I'm sorry… I, I'm feeling a bit dizzy. I don't usually talk like this…"
Villiers didn't seem to mind her tone. He said thoughtfully, "So you know I'm not young." He paused for a moment and then asked unexpectedly, "Lola, how old is your father?"
After a long silence, Lola lowered her head and stared at her fidgeting feet. It was as if she were speaking to her feet when she replied in a low voice, "I don't have a father."
"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have asked that."
Lola was startled. She hadn't expected him to say that. In the chaotic, unruly world she lived in, no one ever apologized for such things. People around her only mocked her and her mother for not being able to keep her father. They called her a freak, a bastard, saying she had the blood of dozens of men in her veins. Although the gossip had faded over time, she had etched those words into her heart, genuinely believing that not having a father was her own fault…
Maybe Mr. L was just being polite, but he was the only one who had ever bothered to be polite to her.
Softly, she replied, "It's alright. I don't mind."
"Lola," he said after a moment of thought, calling her name gently. "I only asked because I wanted to tell you that your father is probably younger than me, or at most, the same age as me. Do you understand what that means?"
Lola understood what he meant. He was rejecting her. Puffing out her cheeks stubbornly, she snapped, "I don't know!"
"There are some things you can't avoid just by pretending not to know," he said, gazing into her eyes. His voice was low and steady. "If you're with me, people will talk. They'll say you're only with me for money. They'll laugh at us, saying it's a perverse relationship. The media will speculate about the details of our relationship, spreading false stories around the world. Wherever you go, whatever you do, strangers who don't know you or understand you will talk about you. Can you handle that?"
Lola panicked, almost childishly shouting, "I don't want your money! I didn't fall in love with you because of your money!" She was frantic, terrified that he wouldn't believe her. Her eyes reddened, and a few more tears spilled down her cheeks.
"I believe you, but others won't," Villiers said as he stood up, distancing himself from her as he adjusted the black diamond cufflinks on his wrist. "Besides, do you really not care about my money?"
His question filled her with intense shame. She glared at him with a hint of annoyance and said through gritted teeth, "I don't care!"
He smiled faintly. "But you like me, don't you? And part of the reason you like me is because I'm rich."
Taking a cigarette from the box but not lighting it, he brought it to his nose and sniffed it thoughtfully. "The world is cruel like that. No matter how old a rich man is, he'll always seem young. And no matter how young a poor man is, he'll always seem old. You may not think you care about my money, but it's exactly my money that attracts you. Am I right, little girl?"
He was twisting logic to suit his argument, but she couldn't think of a way to refute him. For the first time, Lola felt utterly tongue-tied. Lowering her voice, thick with anger, she muttered, "I'm not a little girl!"
With a sigh, he said, "Our age difference is obvious. To me, you are a little girl."
She clamped her mouth shut, afraid that if she kept talking, she'd end up asking him how old he really was. If it turned out to be some shocking number, the chasm between them would only grow wider.
But just because she didn't ask didn't mean he wouldn't say it.
Pointing to himself, Villiers said calmly, "I'm fifty-five. My eldest daughter is thirty-three. Do you still think I don't have the right to call you a little girl?"
This man, when gentle, could be divine in his warmth. But when cruel, he was unbearably ruthless, shattering her beautiful fantasy with his own hands.
Her nose reddened again, and large, round tears began to spill down her face.
But crying didn't mean she was giving up or that she couldn't fight back. It was just a natural reaction when she was sad. Lola wasn't weak, pathetic, or self-pitying. On the contrary, her heart burned with anger, and her whole body radiated with it. The anger split her into two versions of herself—one "Little Lola" filled with love and affection for Mr. L, and another "Little Lola" who wanted to bite him in fury.
When these two "Little Lolas" merged, the "Big Lola" became chaotic and agitated.
And then she did something outrageous.
She stood up, rushed at him, and threw herself into his arms, wrapping her arms around his neck as she lifted her head to kiss him hard on the lips.
It wasn't a kiss—it was more like an act of retaliation. She had no idea how to kiss properly, and her front teeth clumsily collided with his lips. She clung to his neck tightly, her legs shamelessly wrapping around his waist. She recklessly bit down on his lower lip, hugging him with all her strength, as if trying to pour all the heat, all the passion, all the youthful and vibrant love from her chest into his heart through his clothes, his skin, and his body.
Her kiss was so chaotic and forceful that it stirred no desire in him whatsoever, but it undeniably made his heart skip a beat.
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