Whispers of Destiny: His Belated Love

"Martin, I want you."

"Rosemary Chambers, look closely who I am."

The lights suddenly flicked on, and Rosemary's eyes focused on the man above her, her pupils contracting in shock!

"Maxwell Templeton? How could it be you?!"

The man pinched her chin, his face showing extreme detachment, "Stepping into my bed, you should've known I'm not someone to mess with."

"It's not like that; I made a mistake."

Rosemary struggled to push him away, but it was too late. A tearing pain overwhelmed her, and she was consumed by the darkness of the night.

Afterwards, Maxwell tossed her a card, and Rosemary slapped him across the face! He ran his tongue over the corner of his lips, smirking sarcastically, "Isn't this what you wanted, hmm?" Content protected by Nôv/el(D)rama.Org.

That single sentence utterly broke Rosemary; she was out of options for regret.

"Maxwell, I don't want your money; I want you to marry me!"

Three years later, at the Meadowlark Retreat.

Rosemary watched the entertainment news on TV - the dancer Victoria Temple had an accident, tumbling off the stage into chaos.

A man in a suit strode through the crowd with an icy expression, scooped up the injured woman, and walked away from the scene.

It was just a profile shot, but after three years of marriage, Rosemary could recognize him even if just by a glimpse.

Last night, it was the same man who laid in bed, promising to come home early today. She looked over at the table where the meal she slaved over all afternoon has gone cold.

Rosemary stood up, and dumped the food straight into the trash. The irony was stark, with the fresh burn blisters on her fair hands against the emotionless act of trashing the meal.

After dumping the food, Rosemary went upstairs to pack her bags. She remembered, on the day they got their marriage certificate, they also signed a divorce agreement valid for three years - the same time Victoria would be abroad for her studies.

Even though there were still three months left, with Victoria's early return, she supposed the divorce agreement should be effective now.

Rosemary, suitcase in hand, descended the stairs and called Maxwell on her way out.

An impatient voice came through the phone, "What is it?"

Hearing his cold voice, Rosemary's grip on her phone tightened, her fingers whitening - clearly, he'd forgotten last night's promises. But then again, who would believe what a man said in bed?

"Have you eaten?"

Apparently he didn’t want to answer her trivial question; there was silence for a few seconds before he said, "If there's nothing else, I'm hanging up. Busy."

His words were concise, and he hung up after speaking.

Later, Rosemary drove off in the most expensive car from the garage. It didn't seem special among the luxury cars, but once on the road, its ostentatious vibe was unmistakable.

She headed straight for the city's swankiest seven-star hotel and handed a Centurion black card to the receptionist, "The presidential suite, book it for three months."

The receptionist smiled and took the black card, "Certainly, ma'am. That will be 1.5 million. As you're booking the presidential suite, should you check out early, we'll charge a 30% cancellation fee."

Rosemary kept her cool, "Swipe it."

Tomorrow, she probably wouldn't be able to spend Maxwell's money anymore. The divorce agreement drafted by her lawyer split the assets in half, but if Maxwell didn't agree and decided to play hardball, leaving her with nothing wouldn't be a surprise.

After all, the legal team of the Templeton Group was the cream of the crop; there was nothing they couldn't do.

So, while she was still Mrs. Templeton, she might as well splurge. After all, if she didn't, it was just left for the mistress.

Card swiped, the receptionist handed the room key with respect, "This is your room key, ma'am!"

At that moment, others looked at Rosemary as if she was a gold-plated tycoon on the move.

Outside the hospital's surgery room.

When Maxwell saw the credit card transaction, his brow furrowed slightly, not because of the amount, but because the payee was a seven-star hotel.

He frowned, about to call Rosemary, when Victoria was wheeled out of the surgery room. She was still in her dance costume, her arms riddled with gashes from the stage decorations, now stitched up, looking even more ghastly.

And her face was paler than the sheets beneath her. Maxwell put away his phone and approached, "Doctor, how is she?"

"She has a mild concussion, multiple soft tissue contusions, and minor spinal trauma, but according to the examination results, nothing too severe."

Although her injuries weren't too serious, falling from such a height has left Victoria deathly pale. She looked at the doctor anxiously, "Will this affect my career?"

The doctor's response was cautious, "We'll have to see how the recovery goes; it's a possibility."

Victoria's eyes teared up, but she tried to stay strong, looking at Maxwell, "Maxwell, thank you for today. You can go back now; I can manage on my own."

She was cut off by the doctor's stern interruption, "No, you need supervision; even a mild concussion can be risky. You can't take it lightly."

Victoria tried to protest, but Maxwell interjected, "I'll stay tonight; you get some rest."

Knowing him for so long, Victoria understood his temperament, "Thank you, just do you need me to call Rosemary to explain?"

The news had made a big scene; she must have seen it.

He paused for a few seconds, frowned as if feeling irked, "Not necessary."

Maxwell stayed at the hospital until dawn before heading home. The housekeeper was already cleaning when he arrived and asked, "Just back, Mr. Templeton? Breakfast?"

"Yeah."

Sleepless and with a headache, he rubbed his temples and casually inquired about Rosemary, "Where's Rosemary?"

"She must have gone to the office; I haven't seen her since I got here."

Maxwell disliked strangers at home; the housekeeper didn't live there. He glanced at his watch. Normally, Rosemary would still be having breakfast at this time. So, was last night's hotel booking for her own stay?

She didn't come home all night. Maxwell's expression was a bit stormy, but the housekeeper didn't catch on. As she brought in breakfast, she also had a document in hand, "Mr. Templeton, this was given to me by the property management this morning. They said it's a courier package for you."

His home address was top secret and documents were usually sent to his company. His secretary would sift through them first and only bring them to his attention if necessary.

Since he was kicking back with nothing to do at the moment, Maxwell didn't fuss too much and just took the envelope and ripped it open.

The bold letters at the top, spelling out "Divorce Agreement" instantly turned his already dark expression into one of icy chill. He skimmed the document at lightning speed, and when his eyes hit the section on asset division, a cold laugh escaped his throat, "Well, isn't this a detailed wish list."

Every house, car, wad of cash, and stock in his name was neatly divided down the middle. Maxwell muttered to himself, "Pretty gutsy, I'll give her that."

The housekeeper, who was standing by, didn't dare chip in. She'd obviously caught a glimpse of the big "divorce" letters and wished she could vanish into thin air right then and there.

Holding the agreement in one hand, Maxwell pulled out his phone with the other and made a call.

A woman's voice, heavy with sleep, came through the phone promptly, "What's up?"