Encore of the Avenging Muse (Sylvia and Rupert)
Chapter 11

Last night?

Sylvia indeed spilled her guts.

She couldn't bear to see Rupert in such agony, so she gave in. At the height of their passion, amidst almost torturous teasing, she took the moment to bare her soul.

At the moment, she thought, perhaps Rupert would forget by tomorrow. But she would remember everything about this moment, and how close she had been to him at least once.

"Mr. Garcia, I have feelings for you. I've had them for a long time, ever since the day I walked into the Garcias' and you stood up for me. I've been secretly watching you. I know you might not care about me, but I...um...really...love you." Sylvia was sixteen when she joined the Garcias, dressed by her mother, Naomi, like a doll meant for display.

Naomi, unfamiliar with the minimalist fashion of the wealthy, just wanted her daughter to make a dazzling entrance into the Garcias'. Instead, Sylvia became the butt of jokes.

They called her an ugly duckling masquerading as a swan. Naomi, timid and afraid of confrontation, wouldn't even dare to rebuke the servants.

That was when Rupert appeared.

He was tall, clad in a black overcoat, standing under the porch flicking off the ash from his cigarette, exhaling smoke that veiled his face against the backdrop of softly falling snow. Aloof and dangerous, yet undeniably handsome. With just a look, he silenced the servants' mockery.

He was twenty-three that year, fresh out of college, already the formidable person of Kingstoria. He looked at her and simply said, "Not bad."

Those words stayed with her for a long time. So long that she could still recall the scent of him years later.

Their encounters were sporadic.

In the spring garden, she was near tears for dropping in class rank. He leaned against the gazebo, smoking, glanced at the problem, "You're silly. Hand me the pen."

In the summer by the pool, when her leg cramped while swimming, he dove in to rescue her, chiding her for her lack of coordination.

On an autumn street, when she was harassed and couldn't outrun her pursuer, he got out of his car, draped an arm around her, and simply walked away.

Her love for him gathered, moment by moment, through the seasons, cautious and tender.

Yet...

Sylvia had confessed this love in her past life. Her heart, sincere and passionate, bloomed amidst his desires, only to be met with slander and scorn, and her daughter's tragic death. Since Rupert never cared for her love, why should she bother?

Sylvia lowered her gaze, unable to look at Rupert.

"You heard wrong, I never said anything."

"Not calling me 'uncle' anymore?"

"Uncle."

In a breath, the car seemed to freeze over. Sylvia looked at Rupert beside her, his fingers playing with a cigarette. Their eyes met, and he snapped the cigarette in half, tobacco fluttering down. The warning was clear, unspoken.

A tightness gripped Sylvia's chest, a feeling of utter defeat.

"Pull over," Rupert said coldly.

Orson immediately did as told. They were still within the Garcias' territory, Rupert could stop wherever he wanted. After turning off the engine, Rupert glanced at Orson, who quickly got out, not daring to hesitate even for a second.

Sylvia also attempted to leave, but Rupert's grip on her waist pulled her back.

"Trying to play dumb? Sylvia, I was drugged back then, not dead."

His voice was deep, not angry, but dripping with sarcasm.

Sylvia struggled to breathe under his dangerous presence, biting her lip in resistance.

But she was no match for him. Her attempt to move was thwarted as he caught her hands from behind, pressing her down into the leather seat that slightly gave way under their weight. Their position made Sylvia discomforted. Any of her movement only drove her body tightened.

"Let me go!"

But the man behind her, much like the night before, radiated an intense heat, his interest unabated.

Sylvia found herself pinned down, forced to lie across the seats. She felt embarrassed and angry, her wrists locked in his grip.