No More Waiting, She Chooses Love

Chapter 165



Ernest turned his head toward me, his grip on my hand noticeably tightening. In that moment, it felt like he had a hold on my heart itself. They say there's a direct connection between the heart and the hands, and boy, did I feel it then.

"I'm going to give Licia everything I have, love her as deeply as I love my own life, protect her with everything I've got," Ernest's eyes locked on mine, deep and affectionate, shimmering with unspoken promises. Love as deep as the ocean—his gaze finally made me understand the true weight of those words. Even though our relationship was all for show, I could feel Ernest's sincere declaration of love.

This man was playing for keeps, pulling off a real-life romance under the guise of pretense. There was nothing for it but to play along, lifting my hand to grasp his in return, yet part of me wanted to grit my teeth in frustration. I'd asked him to put on an act, not to blur the lines between fiction and reality.

So, I raised my hand to his face and pinched gently, expecting him to blush in his usual straightforward, honest manner.

against my hand, much like a teddy bear pleading for affection. Shameless, absolutely shameless.

and Jacqueline, adding, "And I'll love her for a lifetime, just

part was his declaration, but the latter was a clear jab at Jacqueline. I saw Jacqueline's face freeze, Ernest's words leaving her with no room for

up, "Felicia, let

the way. I had a pretty good guess about what Herschel wanted to discuss and

the study,

open this. Use your new pens and ink to join me in some writing. Joining him in writing was a tradition long forgotten. It had

been allowed into his study, our conversations relegated to the garden or living room. Today's break from foutine left me uneasy, but I didn't question it, instead opening the new pens and ink as he had asked, preparing the

mused, examining the pens. "Ink and pens are priceless," I replied with

began to write once ready. 'One leaf signals the coming of autumn, that was what Herschel wrote. In the midst of summer his choice of words seemed

erstanding of my unspoken