Bride Behind The Mask (Frederick and Marguerite)

Chapter 462

Marguerite fumbled with her seatbelt. She was confused.

Frederick, it seemed, didn’t dislike her as much as she had imagined.

A small thrill of victory zipped through her as she pondered this.

But then, as if on cue, fat snowflakes began to flutter down from the sky, quickly blanketing the streets and bringing traffic to a standstill, trapping the two of them on the road.

Marguerite had dashed out in such a rush that she only threw a peacoat over her usual dress, she didn’t even put on socks.

She felt a chill creeping in, her hands, now rosy with the cold, rubbed together for warmth.

Then came the “click” of a button being pressed, and the next thing she knew, a wave of warm air enveloped her. Suddenly, her heart felt a touch warmer, and she turned to the man beside her to ask, “Are you cold, too?”

“Mhm.” Frederick’s reply was terse, his gaze fixed on the road ahead, a picture of icy detachment.

Yet, the next moment, his eyes inadvertently flicked towards Marguerite’s exposed ankles, just beyond her boots, and his expression tightened ever so slightly.

In truth, Marguerite wanted to ask if Frederick had turned on the heat just for her, but his response made her feel like she was reading too much into it.

her mood lifted, and even the snowy scene outside seemed more enchanting.

stranded them together, cocooned in the tight space

was fully aware it was an illusion, but she couldn’t help wanting it to last a little longer.

often go ungranted, and Maurice Winston’s ill-timed

had been sending Marguerite a bunch of messages, all of which

rare peace inside

When are you coming back?” Maurice’s irritable voice was unmistakable,

it to you where I am?”

what the hell are you playing at? I know you’re with Frederick! Get back

Frederick, who had started the engine, and only

I’ll be right there.” Marguerite hung up, frustration lacing her tone.

didn’t ask who had called, and she didn’t feel like explaining.

home. Instead, he took a turn at the next junction, heading in the opposite direction of the Winston

was puzzled. “Aren’t we going back?”

his eyes

thinking, Marguerite blurted out a suggestion. “How about the Bluebell

feelings to her three years

flickered across his face. On one hand, his decision not to take her home didn’t seem to bother her. On the other, why was she so eager to go to Bluebell Bistro? He wasn’t particularly keen, as the place held memories

Frederick found himself pulling up to the Bluebell Bistro.