Chapter 142

Florence hated Enoch Hains.

The stubborn, prideful girl, even when drowning in a swamp, would spit in his face if he tried to help. She was endlessly troublesome, but over time Enoch learned how to handle her. The trick was simple: as long as it wasn’t Enoch Hains offering the help, she’d accept it.

“Don’t pity me. I never asked someone like you for help.”
“I’m just being kind.”
“Kindness? You just want to laugh at me.”
“When have I ever laughed at you?”
“Right now. You’re doing it right now.”
“Ha.”
“Your whole existence laughs at me. Get lost.”

How twisted could someone be, to lash out like that?

On sweltering days, he could only set a glass of water by her side and leave. If he stayed, she’d rather die of thirst than drink while he watched. Enoch knew no one else in that house cared for her. Still, Florence never once said thank you—too shameless, he thought.

Her jealousy was as relentless as his one-sided love. No matter how much she loved, she chose the worst people. The Seymour family. Linus. Trash, all of them.

Even if they turned kind tomorrow, Enoch thought it would be disgusting. Yet Florence wagged her tail at them, like a dog desperate for scraps. She forgot every cruelty by the next morning.

On her eighteenth birthday, with no gifts, no flowers, not even a line of congratulations, she still dreamed of marrying Linus. After days of insults, she would dress herself prettily just to greet her family home. Even when the bouquet and card she received weren’t from them, she still smiled as though they had been.

Her love was wasted. And Enoch’s love turned bitter watching it.

If only he’d told her gently—“you don’t need to suffer here, you can stop”—maybe his boyhood would have been less miserable. At least they might have fought less. But he hadn’t realized then that Florence, once she chose a path, never turned back.

“What’s wrong with you?” Keith asked, chewing on jerky.
“You don’t get it, Keith…” Enoch groaned, covering his face.
“And if I did, wouldn’t that be the problem?”

Enoch lowered his hand to glare at him. Keith stared back, unimpressed.
“What now? You’re married already.”

The wedding had ended quietly. He had half-feared Laila would crash it and kill him, but after visiting Florence in the bridal room, Laila had lost her venom. She even clapped, then whispered in Enoch’s ear:

“Do well.”

It was a threat—do well, or die quietly. But that didn’t scare Enoch. Florence’s smile, her hand in his—that scared him far more.

“Any more excuses?” she had whispered to him.

Not excuses. Really, not excuses…

Keith squinted.
“So what’s the problem, huh? Don’t tell me you think she’s too young—Florence isn’t a kid.”
“Of course not.”
“Then what, after years of pining, now that you’ve got her, it feels disappointing?”
“Bullshit.”
“Not excited?”
“Are you insane?”
“Or are you just scared of women, virgin boy?”
“….”
“Oh hell. Don’t tell me it’s true?”
“I’m not scared.”

Enoch snapped before Keith’s imagination got out of control. Still, Keith’s jaw dropped. Enoch yanked at his tie, exasperated.

“It’s not me who should be scared—it’s Florence!”
“…Florence should be scared of… you?” Keith covered his mouth, grinning.

How rough was he planning to be?

“You don’t get it! That fearless idiot sneaked into my bedroom at night!”

“….”

“I still can’t believe she even likes me. And yet she—”

He had imagined it for years.

What if Florence loved him as she had loved her family, as she had loved Linus? What if she showered him with that relentless, dogged devotion, never giving up even when rejected? How happy he would be.

But all he’d ever gotten was her jealousy. Even when she returned, after he’d spent five years searching, she leaned on Keith and Marie instead. To him, she was awkward, distant. Being overlooked was so familiar it didn’t even hurt anymore.

Vague hopes of being loved one day were never enough to build a future.

And he hadn’t known just how headstrong she really was.

“Be glad she only sneaks into your bedroom. She hangs off my arm, throws herself into my arms, and last time—she tried to sit on my lap…”
“….”
“If I hadn’t put my foot down that these things wait until after marriage—I swear, I deserve a medal for self-control.”
“…You couldn’t just let it slide?”
“It’s too fast.”
“….”
“There’s a proper order.”

Keith’s eyes went flat.
“She’s twenty-eight.”
“Subtract five.”
“She’s still twenty-three then…”

They’d had this argument in the daytime already. Keith was done. How was he supposed to handle this idiot cousin protecting Florence from himself?

“Only scumbags touch women before marriage.”
“Sorry for being scum…”
Enoch shot him a look that could kill. Keith raised his hands.
“It was mutual consent, alright? Anyway, now you’re married—what’s the problem?”

“….”

“You’re married. She’s old enough. She loves you. What’s left?”

Enoch rubbed his face. That was exactly the problem.

“Does it make sense? That Florence Love Seymour loves me? Does that make any sense at all?”

“You can’t see it?” Keith retorted.

Of course he could. Florence couldn’t hide her feelings. Wherever her gaze fell first, whoever she lingered on—always him.

It was overwhelming. He had been alone in his feelings for so long that being loved back felt unnatural, too much to bear.

The holy vows they had just exchanged should have been sacred. Instead, to Enoch, they felt like a death sentence.

He had loved her too long, too desperately.

And now, harder than circling her while she pushed him away, harder than waiting five years in pain, was this—Florence clinging to him, loving him back.

It was unbearable not to hold her. And there was no turning back now.