Forbidden Passion
Chapter 438 Getting Close to You Brings Misfortune

The clock struck midnight, and Theodore jolted awake.

He sat up on the couch, realizing he had dozed off. Rubbing his eyes, he checked his watch.

The Patek Philippe glinted under the lamp. It was late, and Phoebe still wasn't back.

Theodore got up and searched the bedroom, but Phoebe was nowhere to be found. She hadn't come home.

His face darkened as he grabbed his phone and headed out.

On her first day at work, Phoebe wasn't working late or on a trip, yet she was out until midnight. She was definitely testing him.

As he changed his shoes at the door, the call connected. He asked, "Where are they having dinner?"

Lawton, sleeping deeply with his girlfriend, was startled awake. Seeing the caller ID, he quickly sobered up.

"Mr. Reynolds?" Lawton asked.

"Where are they having dinner?" Theodore's voice was impatient. He stepped outside, the cold air making him look even more stern. Just then, he saw Phoebe lying on the entryway couch, mostly hidden by her down jacket.

Lawton started to answer, but Theodore cut him off. "Never mind, I see her," he said, ending the call and walking over to the couch. Phoebe was curled up, her breath misting the fur trim of her jacket.

Theodore knelt beside her, feeling both angry and tender.

She had come back but chose to sleep at the door. Was she afraid of him? "Do I scare you that much?" he wondered, tracing her features in the air. Phoebe shifted uneasily in her sleep, burying her face deeper into her jacket.

Theodore's expression darkened. The light cast shadows, making him look even more intimidating. Suddenly, he picked her up. Startled, she mumbled, "I don't want to go back. I still want to drink." The smell of alcohol hit him, making him frown. "Little drunkard," he muttered.

Phoebe had been recovering, yet she went out drinking. Didn't she care about her health?

"There's a man-eating tiger at home. I don't want to go back," she slurred, completely drunk.

But the familiar mint scent made her sad.

"Theodore, I hate you. Being near you makes me unhappy. I hate you," she mumbled.

It wasn't the first time Theodore had heard this. A few days ago, she had a high fever and said the same things.

Hearing it again still made his heart ache.

Theodore carried Phoebe into the house and straight to the bedroom. "You hate me, right? But guess what? You're stuck with me forever. Even in death, we'll be together," he said.

Phoebe sensed the menace in his voice and shivered, her stomach churning.

That night, she had accepted every drink to numb herself. Now, her stomach was burning, and she suddenly retched.

Theodore's expression changed. He rushed her to the bathroom, but she vomited all over him before they got there. He was speechless.

His face darkened, and he wished he could throw her into the toilet to sober up.

After vomiting, Phoebe woke up fully. She met Theodore's furious gaze and shivered in fear.

'Shit,' she thought.

She had thrown up on him. He probably wanted to kill her now.

Phoebe shrank back, seeing Theodore's bloodthirsty smile. "Are you awake?" he asked.

Terrified, she struggled to get out of his arms. Seeing the vomit on his clothes, her face turned pale.

"I didn't do it on purpose," she explained.

Theodore's smile was sinister. "If you did it on purpose, I'd have stuffed you into the toilet."

"Let's talk this out," Phoebe said, swallowing hard and feeling nauseous again. "Take off your clothes, and I'll wash them."

"You take them off for me," Theodore said, his eyes burning with a dangerous fire.

Phoebe hesitated, the smell making her wrinkle her nose. Seeing his grim expression, she gritted her teeth and moved closer to help him take off his coat.

Pinching her nose, she threw the coat into the dirty laundry basket and then went to take off his suit jacket.

Theodore cooperated, watching her with interest. "You threw up on me, and I didn't mind. Why do you?" he remarked.

"If you don't mind, why don't you take them off yourself?" Phoebe retorted.

Theodore leaned lazily against the sink, his long legs stretched out, watching her with amusement. "Whoever makes the mess cleans it up," he said.

Phoebe quickly stripped him of his shirt. Under the warm yellow light, his muscles were well-defined, like evenly distributed chocolate.

Theodore was strict about maintaining his physique, working out every morning. This habit kept him in excellent shape, surpassing even magazine models, with incredible stamina and endurance. Phoebe glanced at him, her alcohol-numbed brain starting to wake up. She realized how intimate it was to be in such a confined space with him.

She cleared her throat. "I'll go to the other bathroom," she said.

Before she could slip away, Theodore's large hand hooked her collar and pulled her back. In the next second, her down jacket was stripped off and thrown into the dirty laundry basket.

Theodore's tall, solid body pressed against her back. He whispered in her ear, "Since you're sober, let's do what needs to be done."

Phoebe's heart skipped a beat. She quickly grabbed his hand, which was unbuttoning her suit. "It's too late. I'm really tired," she said.

Theodore looked down at her, his gaze intense. "If you're tired, go to sleep. I'll handle it myself."