Chapter 422

She was talking in her dream, “Mr. Augustine…” What? Was this strange phone number already empty? Elvis’s thin lips tightened into a sharp line. The cell phone number that had texted him a moment ago was now blank—vanished without a trace! Who was this guy? This mysterious person had sent a message to Olive. Was he connected to her?

Just then, a knock sounded at the door. Elvis pulled himself from his thoughts. “Come in,” he said. The bedroom door clicked open, and a small head peeked in. Olive didn't enter; she remained at the door, her bright eyes shining through the crack, falling on his handsome cheek.

Elvis strode to the door, squinting at her. “Why are you standing there? Come in.” Olive was in her pajamas—pink fur pajamas with a bunny ears cap. She was pure, mischievous, and undeniably cute. She held out a slender white hand, offering him his white shirt. “Hey, here are your clothes.” She’d worn it earlier, but now she returned it.

Elvis grasped her slender wrist, pulling her directly into the bedroom and closing the door with a click. His hands pressed against the wall, pinning her. “I asked why you didn’t come in. Afraid I’ll eat you?”

“This is your bedroom,” Olive retorted, trying to lean away from him. “I should keep my distance from a single man. I’m staying in the guest room.”

“What do you mean by not wanting to sleep with me?” Elvis frowned, displeasure evident.

“What? Who wants to sleep with you? Elvis, be serious!” Olive pushed him away, attempting to leave. Though inwardly unhappy, Elvis didn't force her. After all, they would share a bed sooner or later. He placed the bunny ears cap on her head and playfully tugged the ears, a grown man’s smile curving his lips. “So you know I like this?”

Olive’s face flushed. Looking up, she saw his shirt sleeves rolled up, revealing his strong arms and the expensive steel watch on his wrist. He looked so elite, yet here he was, playfully tormenting her bunny ears. She felt pure, while he was…amusing. She slapped his hand. “Elvis, why are you always so perverted?” She’d worn similar pajamas in Los Angeles, and he’d even touched the tail. It wasn’t to please him; she simply liked them.

“Always?” Elvis paused. “Did I ever pull your bunny ears before?”

Olive’s heart skipped a beat. Had he guessed something? Ever since he’d asked about her ex-husband at the research facility, she’d felt his suspicion.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” Elvis’s gaze was appreciative, slightly teasing, gentle yet sharp. “Am I wrong? Did your ex-husband like to pull your bunny ears?”

Confused, Olive pulled down her bunny ears, opened the door, and ran.

Elvis, one hand in his pocket, the other holding her shirt, was sure now. He was her ex-husband! She had given him her first time! The person she loved most was him! She was his everything! He brought the shirt to his nose, inhaling her sweet scent. His throat bobbed. He took a cold shower and put on the shirt.

Late into the night, Elvis searched for information, a thin notebook in hand. A mysterious flower vine appeared on his laptop screen—the flower that had grown above Olive’s heart. A vibrant, almost seductive red. He’d been investigating this flower himself, not delegating it to Peterson and Ray.

A dialog box appeared: “This flower is called the Empress Flower.”

His handsome face was dimly lit. He typed: “What is the Empress Flower?”

The response: “It is said that a mystical country exists, ruled by queens, each possessing sublime medical arts. They are born with this royal flower, a symbol of status and supremacy.”

Elvis frowned. “Where is that country?”

“The country has disappeared, existing only at the world’s end. Only the princess can find her way home.”

Elvis typed, “I want to find a way to get there!”

He closed the notebook, rose from the bed, opened the bedroom door, and entered Olive’s room. She lay curled on the bed, her small face flushed with sleep, eyelids drooping like tiny fans, her expression docile and soft. Elvis sat beside her, his long fingers resting on her face, caressing her gently. She stirred, resting her face in his palm, and murmured in her sleep, “Mr. Augustine…”

He stopped. Mr. Augustine… Was that another alias? What had happened between her and Mr. Augustine? He knew it was someone else, that he shouldn’t be jealous, but sitting here, hearing her call another name in her sleep, a furious, self-directed jealousy consumed him.