Craving the Man She Calls Uncle

Angela pushed the door open and looked up, immediately meeting the cold, distant gaze she had come to expect.

"What are you doing here?" Oliver asked, his tone sharp, almost dismissive.

"I..." Angela faltered, unsure how to continue.

"If you don't have anything to say, just leave," he cut her off, his eyes never leaving his computer screen.

Angela bit her lip as if something had just clicked in her mind. She walked toward him, her footsteps quieter now.

"Uncle, about the solarium... I want to clear it out."

It was the room he had designed to mirror the layout of the Watson family's old mansion after buying this villa.

"Why?" Oliver's voice remained impassive, though his brow arched slightly in curiosity.

"I don’t want it anymore." Her voice dropped, barely audible, her eyes downcast.

The house was in her name. He had told her years ago that she would own the place.

But now? He'd brought someone else into her domain.

Hence, Angela felt the solarium to be unnecessary.

"Do as you like," he stingly replied.

This time, Oliver didn't even bother to lift his eyes from the screen. His indifference was almost chilling.

She must have become an inconvenience to him, she thought. It was time for her to leave to make breathing easier for him.

"Thank you, Uncle," she said softly, her voice laced with sincerity. She still bowed slightly, grateful for his care over the years.

But as if sensing her mood, Oliver stood up, walking toward her.

At that exact moment, Gwen, dressed in a sheer silk nightgown, "tap-tapped" into the room, bouncing into Oliver's arms with a playful giggle.

She reached out, but before she could even touch his chest, Oliver swiftly pulled her into an embrace.

"Oliver," Gwen cooed, "I just saw the solarium from the balcony. It looks so beautiful!"

"Do you like it?" Oliver's lips curled up in a small, affectionate smile.

"Mm, but..." Gwen lifted her right arm, revealing a bandage wrapped around it. Her gaze lingered lazily on Angela, who was already about to turn away.

"Wait," Oliver called, stopping Angela before she could leave. "Help Gwen pick some flowers," he ordered.

Angela hesitated for a moment, then relaxed her clenched fist, nodding in acknowledgment.

Behind her, their laughter echoed, soft at first but growing more flirtatious and intimate with each passing moment.

Angela quickly went downstairs, grabbing a pair of pruning shears. She approached the flower room, trying to block out their sounds in the background.

Her phone buzzed relentlessly on the way down.

It was Gwen, sending a string of messages, telling her exactly which flowers to pick.

Gwen had practically mapped out the entire room for her.

Angela was exhausted from the endless cutting, but the flood of sweet photos Gwen kept sending her made her forget her fatigue.

When she wanted a specific flower, Oliver always Oliver always picked it for her. All she had to do was sit on the swing, point, and he'd fetch whatever she asked for.

He used to say her hands were meant for the piano, that she shouldn't get them dirty. When she was younger, he'd taught her how to play, always in the front row at every competition, watching her perform. But over time, he started to disappear.

The last time, she waited for him on stage for hours. The performance ended, but Oliver never showed.

When she returned to the hotel that night, heartbroken, she wrapped herself in the blanket, trying to block out the ache.

She never expected him to barge in like that.

That was the night he confessed to Gwen.

And when he whispered her name later, it felt like a knife twisting in Angela's chest.

She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to push the memory away, but it was like a vice around her heart. It was both painful and suffocating.

"Ouch!"

Angela snapped out of her thoughts with a sharp intake of breath. A thorn had pierced her skin. In her panic, she yanked her hand back, watching as a streak of blood ran down her palm.

Clenching her fist, she rushed back to the living room, searching for the first-aid kit.

After quickly bandaging the cut, she gathered the large bouquet of flowers in her arms and headed to Oliver's door.

"Uncle, the flowers in the solarium are ready," she said, her voice quiet, almost hesitant.

He opened the door without a word, took the flowers from her hands, and then slammed the door shut with a sharp motion.

The wind from the door hit her, lifting her hair and sending a chill through her body.

It was cold.

Angela pressed her lips together, fighting back the sting of tears. She turned back to her room, her steps heavy and slow.