The day had been long, and Hudson, ever the pragmatist, looked over at Norliya with a trace of concern hidden beneath his otherwise impassive expression. His sharp eyes narrowed as he watched her, and in his mind, he knew something was amiss. He had no patience for emotional indulgence, especially not in this kind of weather, where the chill cut through the bones and left no room for idle antics. The cold air had been biting, relentless, as it often was in this season. Yet here she was, looking at him with the faintest pout, as though she had been wronged—her lips pressed tight, her brows furrowed in a delicate frown. It was a look that suggested vulnerability, but one Hudson had little patience for.
"Out for the day, are you?" he asked dryly, his voice carrying the weight of his skepticism. "Did you think you were invincible, Norliya? This weather—this city—doesn't allow for such careless wanderings. A jacket wouldn't have hurt."
Her cheeks flushed as though a bit of fire had ignited inside her at his words, but she couldn't muster the courage to protest. She shifted uncomfortably on the spot, feeling the heat of his gaze burning into her. She wanted to speak, to explain herself, but how could she? She was not the one who had done wrong, after all.
With a sigh, she spoke, though the words seemed to catch in her throat, her voice trembling slightly. "I... I saw something," she murmured. "Your room. There was a woman's stocking."
Hudson's eyes flickered, just for a moment, but it was enough to make her heart skip. He raised an eyebrow, a small smirk curling at the edges of his mouth. "And that concerns you, does it?"
"Of course, it does!" The words burst from her, sudden and sharp. The jealousy in her chest ignited a fire that she could no longer control. "I love you, Hudson. And I can't stand the thought of another woman—any woman—being close to you. And that... that stocking... It must mean something more."
He regarded her with a mixture of amusement and something else, perhaps a touch of annoyance. The way she stood there, defiant yet small, trying to hold onto her pride despite the vulnerability in her eyes, was almost too much for him to ignore. He brushed a lock of hair from her face, the motion casual but possessive, before speaking with a laziness that bordered on indifference.
"They're nothing. Just transactions. Nothing more. I've no time for sentimentalities."
Norliya could feel the pain in her chest, each word he spoke like a blow to her heart. It wasn't enough that she loved him with every ounce of her being, but now she had to contend with the fact that he cared for her only as an afterthought. His words, though pragmatic, twisted her insides, and she felt an overwhelming ache build in her chest.
Her love for him, for all its depth and intensity, was starting to turn into something else entirely—something that consumed her, tore at her insides, and left her feeling hollow. What was the point of it all?
She was drowning in the pain of unrequited affection, but she wouldn't admit it. Not to him. Not to herself.
Hudson's expression softened, a rare flicker of something close to tenderness flashing through his grey eyes as he looked at her. "I love you, Norliya. But I'm not going to change, and you'd do well to understand that."
As if the words weren't enough, he motioned for Jason, who had been standing nearby, awaiting instructions. "Cancel everything. All of it," Hudson said with a cool authority.
Jason's eyes widened. "All, sir? Every single one?" His voice was filled with hesitation, a mixture of surprise and apprehension.
"Yes, all of it," Hudson repeated, his voice leaving no room for argument.
As Jason hurried to comply, the faintest flicker of realization dawned on him. He had known for some time that there was something more between Hudson and Emilia, but hearing Hudson speak in such definitive terms made it clear. Norliya wasn't the one.
Meanwhile, Norliya was sinking deeper into her thoughts, the weight of everything pressing down on her. Hudson—her only anchor in this life—was slipping away, and she didn't know how much more of this she could take. The thought of losing him entirely, of seeing him drift further into the arms of another, was a terror she couldn't escape.
Her resolve hardened. There had to be something she could do. She couldn't simply let it end like this, could she? No, there had to be a way to make him feel the same desperation that was consuming her from within.
An idea came to her suddenly—reckless, but potent. If she couldn't have his heart, she would force him to notice her, force him to feel the weight of her pain.
She pulled out her phone, her fingers trembling as she dialed Jason's number. "Jason?" she whispered, her voice thick with false sorrow. "Tell Hudson... tell him I'm going to end it. That I can't go on without him."
She hung up before he could reply, then went about preparing herself. She dressed carefully, as if this would be her last night—her last statement. Her heart was a tumultuous sea, but she held it together long enough to apply makeup, to place her journal on her bed. She had made up her mind. She would make Hudson understand.
But what was the right way to do it? A knife? Pills? The idea of a noose made her shudder—no, it had to be something dramatic enough to make Hudson see her pain.
As she deliberated, the phone sat beside her, the weight of her decision hanging in the air. Would it work? Would he care enough to come for her? Or would he simply turn away, as he always did?
Back in Japan, thousands of miles away, the news would reach the wrong ears—ears that would burn with fury and pain. And when it did, it would set in motion a chain of events that would spiral out of control, beyond Norliya's intentions.
But for now, all she could think of was Hudson and the way his presence made her feel both alive and empty at the same time. Would he come for her? Would he even care enough?
Her heart thudded painfully in her chest, a desperate hope growing amid the suffocating darkness.
The whole thing was ridiculous, as absurd as it was charming, yet Hudson couldn't quite explain why he had agreed to cook a meal for Emilia. A promise, he supposed—a foolish one, but a promise all the same. Twenty-six years he had lived on this earth, and this was the first time he had found himself holding a knife with intention, the first time an apron had clung around his waist like a strange shroud. And, of course, it was the first time his heart had skipped a beat over something so trivial. Yet here he was, standing in the middle of his vast kitchen, trying to cook a Chinese meal for the woman who had more power over him than he'd ever care to admit.
The kitchen itself, though spacious by most standards, felt cramped to him. At six feet three, he was always mindful of the low ceiling and the narrow space between the counter and stove. The knives, once instruments of combat, now felt like foreign objects in his hands, awkward and clumsy. His mind, usually razor-sharp, fumbled over the most basic steps of chopping vegetables.
Then, as if to mark the occasion, the sound of the knife clattering against the floor pierced the silence—an almost comical reminder of how out of his element he was. And Emilia, always attentive, rushed into the kitchen once more, her small feet barely making a sound as she appeared at his side, her brow furrowed with genuine concern.
"What's going on?" she asked, her voice full of worry.
Hudson, though irritated by her constant presence, couldn't bring himself to push her away completely. "You go listen to music," he said, with the kind of tone that only half-pretended at being gruff. "The kitchen's too small for both of us."
It was a ridiculous thing to say. The kitchen was over forty square meters, hardly cramped by anyone's measure. But to him, in this moment, it felt like a confining box, a tiny island where he was a king of his own making, but utterly unqualified for this particular task. And then, there it was—a glimpse of the left hand, hidden awkwardly behind his back, fingers slick with blood. A small cut, barely anything, but enough to make Emilia gasp.
"No, no," she said, shaking her head. "Don't cook anymore. We'll just have the chefs downstairs make it. You're hurt."
He threw her a quick, almost dismissive glance. "I told you," he muttered, his voice now tinged with something he couldn't quite disguise—defiance, perhaps, or pride, "I don't back out of promises." After all, it was just a meal, just a few simple dishes. How hard could it be?
But then her hand, soft and warm, closed around his, and she pressed her palm to the small wound with an unexpected tenderness. Her eyes were damp, her voice soft as she whispered, "Please, let me put an ointment on it. Just a little bandage?"
He felt an odd rush in his chest—irritation, but also something deeper, something stirring. "This?" He looked down at the tiny slice in his hand, almost laughing at its insignificance. "This little thing? I've had worse since I was four." The words came out a bit more sharply than he intended, and he could feel his temper start to flare—not at her, but at the ridiculousness of the whole situation. He wasn't a man who cared for such niceties.
But Emilia's face, her tears welling up in those delicate eyes, made him falter. She didn't need to cry over something so trivial. He felt his chest tighten in a way he couldn't explain.
"It's just a scratch," he repeated, but it sounded hollow, even to him. "Why are you crying?" The question came out before he could stop it.
Her voice trembled as she spoke, the words hanging in the air between them. "I'm afraid if you keep cooking, you'll bleed to death."
Bleed to death? He couldn't help but laugh at the absurdity of it all. The very idea of dying in a kitchen, from a cut no less, struck him as both ludicrous and strangely endearing. But beneath the humor, something else stirred—a warmth, a tenderness that he didn't want to acknowledge, but couldn't deny. Emilia was his weakness. His one weakness.
He reached for her then, pulling her into his arms with a strength that surprised them both. Her legs wrapped instinctively around his waist, her arms around his neck as they faced each other, their gazes locked. The world outside seemed to cease, as if time itself had frozen in the presence of something that neither of them had expected.
For a long moment, neither of them moved, their breath mingling, their hearts beating in unison. And then, with a voice that was hoarse and filled with something raw, something more than he had intended, Hudson whispered, "Emilia... you are my love."
Her response was a soft sob, her joy too immense to be contained. She couldn't speak, couldn't find the words to express the overwhelming joy that flooded her heart. This man, this wild, fierce leader of men, was gazing at her with eyes so full of love and tenderness that it almost made her head spin. She had never felt so wanted, so cherished.
"Winter's end," he said, his voice deep and steady, "when the snow melts, we will marry. I'll cherish you forever."
Tears welled up in her eyes again, but this time they were tears of happiness, of something far beyond what she had ever dreamed. "You'll marry me?"
He kissed her then, a kiss that was soft but fierce, a promise wrapped in the warmth of their shared moment. "Emilia," he whispered, "there's no room for doubt. I am not a man to go back on my word."
She smiled through her tears. "You can't back out, remember?"
He chuckled, the sound deep and rich. "I don't intend to."
In that moment, as the world seemed to pause around them, Hudson felt something shift within himself. He had always been a man of action, of cold decisions, but Emilia had a way of breaking through his armor, of making him feel things he had long since buried.
For once, he allowed himself to be vulnerable, to love with abandon. It was a rare thing, a thing that only she could draw from him.
And for the first time in years, as he held her close, he wasn't afraid of what the future might bring. He was ready—ready to give her everything, to offer her the promise of a love that would last beyond lifetimes.