Encore of the Avenging Muse (Sylvia and Rupert) novel Chapter 389

With Orson’s apology still hanging in the air, the glass partition in the car slid upward, giving them privacy.

Sylvia’s eyes went wide, her cheeks burning hot.

Rupert stared at her, noticing how her skin glowed in the sunlight, soft and pink like a ripe Georgia peach. Just looking at her, he felt a tug deep in his chest, as if someone had hooked his heart.

Sylvia tried to sit up, but Rupert’s hand pressed gently against the back of her head, pulling her into a deeper kiss.

She pushed against his chest, but he just held her tighter, flipping her so she was pinned against the back seat.

The more she struggled, the closer their bodies pressed together.

Maybe it was her imagination, but his kiss felt different today—less restrained, more desperate, rough even.

Sylvia’s attempts to fight back grew weaker by the second, until finally, she jabbed at his injured side.

He sucked in a sharp breath, his eyes narrowing. “Sylvia, when are you ever going to stop being so damn stubborn? You’re either fighting me or throwing a punch.”

“And I’m never going to be as sweet or agreeable as Bridget, am I?” Sylvia shot back, breathless.

Rupert let out a low laugh, looking down at her. “Sarcastic much?”

His words hit a nerve. Sylvia averted her gaze, her embarrassment written all over her face.

Rupert’s hand found her hair, his fingers gently tugging her earlobe. “Honestly, you’re not even as sharp as Freya.”

That stung. In Rupert’s eyes, she was never as good as Bridget or Freya or anyone else. So why couldn’t he just let her go?

“Fine, Uncle Rupert, you’re right. Go ahead, keep humiliating me. But could you at least do me the courtesy of staying the hell away from me?”

She didn’t even know where the strength came from, but she grit her teeth and shoved him away, finally putting some space between them.

Rupert’s face turned cold, and he opened his mouth to say something when the car jerked to a stop.

Orson, worried about Rupert’s injury, was out in a flash, rapping on the window. “Mr. Rupert, we’re here.”

At the sound, Sylvia pushed him away and hurried out of the car, bolting toward the hospital.

Rupert stepped out after her, jaw set, his expression icy.

Orson gestured after Sylvia. “Should I go after her, sir?”

“No. Let her go,” Rupert replied, voice like ice.

“Mr. Edwin asked Mr. Rupert why he was taking such a big risk. You really don’t get it?”

“If Mr. Rupert didn’t go public with the evidence himself, no one would believe it. But he didn’t have to stick his neck out like this!”

Sylvia’s mind flashed back over everything that had happened, a chill running through her.

Bridget always knew how to play the media. She had the Simpson family backing her, Fanny Lance, Freya, even Tristan. If Sylvia was the one to expose her, would justice really be served? Maybe not.

But now, the Simpson family was on the verge of bankruptcy after Rupert pulled his investments and their latest failures. Fanny was dead, the Lances had fallen from grace, Freya’s sob story had turned real, and even Tristan had been publicly disgraced.

Bridget was nothing now—a wilted, rotten rose. Anyone who touched her would end up stinking, too.

Sylvia knew, deep down, she couldn’t have managed what Rupert had.

Orson pressed the water bottle into her hand. “Mr. Rupert’s got a concussion. Please look after him, Ms. Lloyd.”

“A concussion? That serious?”

Orson nodded. Maybe God would forgive him for lying, he thought, just this once.