Whispers of Destiny: His Belated Love

Pearl glanced at Maxwell, whose mood had evidently deteriorated, “Even if I’ve heard something, is it related to you? Just answer what you’re asked. If you don’t know, then make a call and find out. Don’t be so indecisive.”

Ever since he got married, this wasn’t the first time Maxwell got the cold shoulder from his mom. Pinching his brow in some resignation, he replied, “We’re not even divorced yet. Plus, do you really think the Gellar family would let Martin marry a divorced woman?”

“Why wouldn’t they? If they think Rosemary isn’t good enough for their family, then they’re blind.”

Despite saying this, Pearl knew very well this matter was a bit tricky.

The Gellar family wasn’t small; the line of eligible bachelorettes eager to marry Martin. Even with Pearl backing her up, Rosemary’s history with Maxwell was a thorn in the side.

Seemingly, she would have to find an opportunity to explore the Gellar family’s stance. If it was hopeless, she would advise Rosemary—there are plenty of other fish in the sea.

But this would have to wait until Norton returned from the Brooksville branch, as she didn’t get along with Mrs. Gellar and wasn’t very familiar with her.

Maxwell didn’t know what she was thinking, but seeing that Pearl didn’t entangle him on this matter anymore, he thought she had finally figured it out, “Mom, why did you suddenly think of matchmaking Rosemary and Martin?”

“They have been sweetly shopping together. They don’t need my matchmaking.”

After saying this in annoyance, Pearl gave him a look, as if saying “you’re such a letdown, can’t even keep your wife,” she grabbed her bag and left.

Five minutes later, Maxwell ordered Christ, who had come in to get the paperwork, “Check where Rosemary is now.”

Whenever Christ heard the name Rosemary now, he would reflexively tense up. Fortunately, he was prepared and had already sent someone to check, “Mrs. Templeton is having dinner with Oswald from Heritage Revive Studio.”

Subordinates always have to play to the boss’s tune. When Maxwell wasn’t fond of Rosemary, Christ, although respectful to her, would refer to her as “Ms. Chambers” or “Assistant Chambers.” But lately, sensing a shift in Maxwell’s attitude, he promptly switched to calling her “Mrs. Templeton.”

Rosemary arrived ten minutes early and was led by a waiter into a reserved private room. To her surprise, Oswald was already there, sipping tea. Rosemary said, “Oswald, sorry I’m late.”

Oswald waved it off, “No worries, I came early on purpose. I just love the tea here, had them brew a pot specially.”

Rosemary handed over the gift she had brought, “Oswald, thanks for all your hard work at Heritage Revive Studio recently. This is just a token of my appreciation.”

Oswald didn’t resist, “I’d love to take credit, but you made things too easy for me. If Hans could be half as easygoing as you, I would be content.”

After exchanging courtesies, Oswald got down to the serious business, “I’ve called you several times before to invite you back to Heritage Revive Studio, but you’ve refused each time. That’s why I’m here in person.”

Rosemary tried to interrupt, “Oswald.”

However, Oswald raised his hand to stop her, “Hear me out first. I know the way Heritage Revive Studio handled things has disappointed you, but I’m not here on their behalf. I’m here for the

countless artifacts yearning to see the light of day again. Only by restoring them can history become more vivid, and people can gain a clearer insight into the past. You know as well as I do that our field is short on talent; so many artifacts are excavated and then just left to gather dust in storerooms because there’s no one to restore them.”

His gaze fell on Rosemary. But it seemed to look right through her, as if at someone else, “You know, you remind me a lot of Rosalind, a big name in our circle back in the day. Not only in the way you restore artifacts, but also in your appearance.”

Hearing her mother’s artist name from Oswald’s mouth again, Rosemary couldn’t keep her composure, “You knew Rosalind?”

She’d wanted to ask this last time but had held back.

Her mother’s cause of death was uncertain. Over the years, she and her grandfather had been privately investigating. They’d only managed to trace the possible culprit to someone within the circle, with motives related to a painting her mother was restoring—a painting said to bring misfortune, with all who touched it meeting untimely deaths.

But Rosemary didn’t believe it. Could a painting even become a spirit and harm people.

Her interest in the circle was not just a passion but partly to find someone who knew the real story behind that year.

Oswald responded, “Rosalind used to work at Heritage Revive Studio. She was taken on as a disciple by my teacher in a rare move. Technically, she was my junior. At that time, us in our forties getting completely shown up by a twenty-something lass – we lost face completely. But then she left this circle for a man.”

Grinding his teeth, he continued, “What a waste of talent. If I ever find out who that man was, I’d break his legs. But if he treated her well, I guess I’d forget it.”

Lowering her head, Rosemary asked in a relatively low voice, “Do you still have contact with her now?”

“No, not for the past ten years.”

Her mother died ten years ago.

“Before you lost contact, did she tell you anything?”

Oswald sensed something was wrong, “You knew Rosalind?”

Rosemary opened her mouth, for a moment wanting to tell him everything. Compared to herself, Oswald had way more connections in the circle, and since he was both a colleague and a sort of mentor to her mom, he must have knew things that she and her grandfather did not. But in the end, she held back, “No, I’m just a bit curious about this senior who you praised so much.”

The whole situation from back in the day was complicated, and she couldn’t be sure if Oswald truly had no connection to her mother’s death. It was not yet time to tell everything.

“Oswald, I promise to return to Heritage Revive Studio.”

Stepping out of the building, Rosemary only then noticed it was raining outside.

The drizzle blurred the world into a misty haze, and the damp, chilly wind snuck in through her collar, sleeves, and pant legs, sending shivers down her spine.

She came here in Martin’s car, so she would have to take a taxi home.

Holding an umbrella borrowed from the restaurant, Oswald offered, “Rose, did you drive here? If not, let me give you a lift.”

Rosemary shook her head, “No, it’s fine, I’ll just—”

She gestured towards the street and was about to say she’d grab a taxi, but before she could finish, someone grabbed her outstretched hand.

A large palm belonged to a man. He grasped her hand, his burning hot palm pressing against her ice-cold skin.

Then, a big black umbrella shielded her, blocking the fine rain, “We won’t trouble you, Oswald.”

As he spoke, Rosemary turned and caught sight of his face.

Maxwell, wearing glasses that came from who knows where, had the coldness in his eyes hidden behind the lenses. The glasses also softened his sharp facial features, even making the smile at the corners of his mouth seem warm and gentle, making him look like a refined gentleman.

This was the very temperament that elders loved—all polite, kind, and gentle as jade.

Rosemary bit her lip and silently confronted him, “Maxwell, what the heck are you trying to do?”