Love Unspoken

Chapter 62

Alexander gracefully lifted his glass from the table, taking a delicate sip. Oliver, having been lost in thought,

suddenly piped up, "Alexander, is this really about Getty?" It was evident that Oliver had seen Getty's social

media post but had chosen to refrain from engaging.

Despite the prevalence of social networks, Oliver was a ghost in the digital world."You're overstepping. You

should be more concerned about keeping your sister in line," Alexander retorted, skillfully deflecting the

question. To Oliver, this deflection served as a tacit admission. He couldn't help but marvel at the complexity of

love. "Speople don't have to be extraordinary. They just need to find someone who adores them

wholeheartedly." Alexander gently caressed his glass, his expression unreadable, offering no response to Oliver's

insightful remark.---Quinn lay sprawled on the couch, her consciousness wavering between sleep and

wakefulness.

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Haunting images from the news and vicious online comments plagued her dreams. She dreamt of Abigail, unable

to withstand the onslaught of cyberbullying, leaping from the top of a skyscraper. The moment Abigail jumped,

Quinn's heart plummeted in tandem. Abruptly, she woke up, staring blankly at the ceiling. The soft murmur of

the television filled the room, accompanied by the gentle patter of rain against the windowpane. Amber Bay was

no stranger to such wet weather. Suddenly, the distinct clicks of the keypad lock on the front door pulled her

from her reverie. She sat upright, her gaze fixed on the entrance. The door swung open, revealing Alexander's

silhouette. He brushed rain droplets off his shoulders and stepped inside, pausing as his gaze fell on Quinn.

Glancing at his watch, it read 2:30 AM. "You haven't gone to bed?" he asked, immediately realizing the

redundancy of his question. When had he ever chto find Quinn asleep? This time, however, she didn't

rise to take his coat, a minor detail that tinged his mood with a hint of the unusual. He hung his coat himself and

approached Quinn, taking a seat beside her. "Didn't | tell you not to wait up for me?" His fingers traced her

cheek, the cold from outside chilling her skin.

Her eyes remained locked on him, his composure unchanged as if nothing had transpired. "To him, I'm still just a

child. Is it futile for him to be mad at a child?’ she pondered.Quinn gestured with her hands, "Why?" Alexander's

fingers, which had been resting on her face, stilled. He studied her intensely before cracking a half-smile, "Are

you scolding me?"

Quinn pressed her lips together. She had no right to scold, and even her questions seemed superfluous. Just like

when he burned the painting Abigail had given her he didn't need a reason. If there was one, it was simply

because Abigail had hurt the woman he loved.

Silence once again enveloped the living room, the sound from the TV amplifying the emptiness of the villa. "Let's

go to bed," Alexander declared, scooping her up and heading for the staircase. Once in bed, his hands began to

wander restlessly.

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Quinn felt constricted and turned away from him, her body language silently refusing him. But her resistance

was futile. He gripped her shoulder, pulling her back toward him. His fingers brushed against her injury, and the

sharp pain made her world go dark as she inhaled sharply.

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