Chapter 417: You Must Be Responsible for Me

Elvis is back! Olive quickly released the old woman’s arm, sat up, and ignored the bird’s nest Betty offered. Her clear eyes fixed on Elvis’s handsome face, betraying a slightly unnatural composure. She had impulsively agreed to stay with her grandmother; now, regret washed over her.

Sensing the shift in mood, Mrs. Samantha stood, laughed, and said, “Elvis, you’re back. Let’s talk with Olive. We’ll go out first.” With a wink at Betty, she departed. Betty quickly gave Elvis half a bowl of bird’s nests: “Young master, there are still some. Please offer them to Olive.” Then, Mrs. Samantha took Betty away, leaving Elvis and Olive alone.

Elvis sat beside the bed, offering a spoonful of bird’s nest to her lips. “Open your mouth,” he said. The request, though similar to Betty’s earlier one, held a different weight. Olive hastily shook her head. “I’m full. I won’t eat.”

Elvis gazed at her small face. Having just awakened, her cheeks were rosy, her skin dewy. Her dark hair was scattered, a few strands framing her snow-white neck. She wore his white shirt, its looseness accentuating her delicate frame. Betty had changed her clothes; he hadn't noticed until now that her legs were tucked under his silk blanket, prompting him to wonder if she wore trousers. He admired her legs—beautiful, white, slender, and straight.

Elvis’s eyes darkened; he swallowed hard. He asked, “Do you want me to change the feeding method?” Olive, confused, her clear eyes now dark and wet, looked at him with unwavering purity. “What?”

Elvis took a mouthful of bird’s nest, then positioned his hand near her, his tall, handsome body looming over her, his presence assertive. He blocked her lips with a sudden kiss. Olive’s eyes widened. Elvis didn’t close his, observing her, seeing her vulnerability. Her fluttering eyelids, he thought, were adorable. She raised her hands to his chest, pushing. “Move!”

As soon as she spoke, Elvis fed her another mouthful of bird’s nest. Olive’s pupils constricted; she understood his “changed feeding method.” Unprepared, she swallowed. Only then did Elvis release her. Olive wiped her lips. Had she not swallowed, she would have spat it out. Looking at him, she exclaimed, “Elvis, what are you doing? It’s unhygienic!”

Elvis, typically meticulous about hygiene, seemed to enjoy this unorthodox feeding. He watched her angry expression, her resemblance to a ruffled kitten endearing. With a mischievous smirk, he declared, “You’re my woman. I can do whatever I want.”

“What? When did I become your woman?” Olive asked in surprise.

“You’re in my bed. Therefore, you’re my woman.”

“You…”

“Not only that, the bird’s nest you ate, the white shirt you wear, your food, and clothing—all mine. Don’t you even admit you’re my woman? I won’t support someone else’s woman.”

Olive, usually quick-witted and verbally dominant, was silenced. She’d never lost a verbal battle before, yet she consistently failed against Elvis. He was her nemesis.

“So I’ll go,” she said, lifting the blankets. But Elvis wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her down onto the bed, his body covering hers. “My bed isn’t for anyone to enter and leave freely,” he murmured.

Trapped beneath him, she inhaled his clean, masculine scent—a fragrance she loved, a haunting memory. She’d slept in his arms in Los Angeles, waking each morning to his embrace. Lately, she’d avoided those memories, yet now, here she was, back in his arms. The pleasant sensation softened her, a blush creeping onto her face.

A message notification pinged on her phone, which lay on the nightstand, out of reach. “Move, I want my phone,” she pushed. Elvis glanced at the phone, easily retrieving it and handing it to her. “Here.” He remained, holding her, allowing her to read the message from North.

She’d asked North to identify the person who posted pictures of her buying birth control pills. North's reply: “Elvis Augustine.”

Olive reread the name, then looked up at him. “Elvis, did you release that picture? Are you crazy? I know why the Paulo family pushed me, but you? What do you want?” She’d suspected many, but never him. Now, it was clear—he’d been present that night. He’d taken and released the photo, setting off the ensuing chain of events.

Rage consumed Olive. The terrible things he’d done, and the consequences she now faced—her anger intensified. She clenched her fist and punched him twice. Elvis allowed the blows, then caught her wrist and pinned her to the bed. “What should I do? Who told you to sleep with me and then turn away? You refuse to take responsibility, to acknowledge our relationship!”