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Chapter 3

The rain came pouring down.

The heavens kept their promise; it was said the rain would fall in the evening, and fall it did. Dark clouds blanketed the sky, turning the sparse wind and heavy rain into a scene that felt more like midnight than early evening. Winnie pushed open the revolving door and stepped outside under the watchful gaze of the concierge and security guards. She hadn't changed clothes—her hair and outfit were exactly as they were when she arrived.

She stood silently, hands at her sides, staring into the gray rain.

The distant sea and sky blurred into one chaotic expanse, all beauty obscured.

Amid the relentless roar of the storm, one of the security guards cast her a discreet glance, puzzled as to why this glamorous actress would step outside in such weather.

Then his eyes widened in shock as he witnessed something he would never forget.

The elegant figure, clad in a strappy fishtail gown, walked straight into the rain without warning.

"Miss Loxley!" he cried out in alarm.

Winnie raised a hand, signaling for him to stay back. Her voice, calm but nearly drowned by the rain, carried only faintly, "It's fine."

She just wanted to feel the rain. If the cold could cause her to collapse with a high fever, so much the better. But years of fitness and maintaining her figure made it unlikely she'd faint so easily.

So she treated it as an act of release. Ideally, her makeup would smear, her hair would unravel, and that dress would be ruined, making Wyatt despise her for her ungratefulness. Sometimes, she thought, her biggest flaw was knowing too well how to be grateful.

The public relations team welcoming guests downstairs had already cleared out, signaling that all attendees had arrived. Winnie felt a bit relieved—no one else would be coming here. Of course, who would dare to be late for Edison's banquet?

The autumn chill had cooled the city, and the icy rain instantly soaked her hair and skin. Muttering curses about Wyatt being a bastard, she stubbornly resisted the fine tremors running through her body.

She didn't notice the arrival of a silver-roofed Maybach, longer than most cars, gliding past the fountain roundabout and approaching the portico.

The luxurious car moved in silence, its cabin even quieter, sealing the sound of rain outside into a faint, soothing white noise. The windshield wipers worked tirelessly to clear the water streaks from the glass.

As the car rolled under the covered entrance, the white noise ceased, signaling to the man in the backseat that they had arrived. He had been resting with his eyes closed but seemed to sense something at that moment, opening them just as the car came to a halt.

A quick glance out of the corner of his eye, and he issued a calm command,"Stop the car."

The driver, an older man with graying temples, turned slightly and responded,"Okay."

The man in the backseat glanced sideways for two seconds before retracting his gaze, his expression as indifferent as ever. He lowered his eyes and instructed simply,"Get her an umbrella."

The driver followed his gaze, saw the figure in the rain, and briskly complied.

As he stepped out with a long black umbrella, the back window lowered halfway, revealing a hand extending a silk shawl. It was lightweight and almost intangible in the hand, yet once draped over the shoulders, its meticulous craftsmanship and fine silk would block out every trace of cold.

The man's voice remained steady, devoid of unnecessary emotion. "Careful not to catch a chill."

It wasn't until she saw someone approaching with an umbrella that Winnie realized her outburst had been seen. But by then, it was too late to hide.

The man walked closer, his face framed by gray at the temples, revealing someone around sixty years old.

Winnie let out a breath of relief.

At his age, he likely wouldn't recognize her. Besides, soaked as she was, her rain-streaked face probably looked scarier than a ghost's.

The man opened another long umbrella and handed it to Winnie.

Its handle, crafted from black walnut, glowed with a soft luster, exuding an elegance and gravitas rarely associated with something as ordinary as an umbrella.

Winnie instinctively took it, still slightly dazed. The next moment, a silk shawl was placed in her hands, its texture soft and weightless.

"Even in the ever-constant seasons of L.A., there are occasional unexpected cold spells," he said.

"Thank you," Winnie replied simply, not asking further.

The typically dry air of L.A. carried a faint dampness from the rain, bringing a refreshing sense of cleanliness. Winnie inhaled subtly, catching a whiff of fabric softener on the shawl. It wasn't exactly a perfume—hard to define but best described as a comforting, "homely" scent. A cool, pure fragrance, crisp like the air of a high-altitude morning.

"It's a request from the guest," the man said, stepping slightly to the side with a faint smile. He continued, "He asked me to tell you: ‘If you want to listen to the rain, you don't have to get wet.'"

If you want to listen to the rain, you don't have to get wet.

The words struck something in Winnie, resonating like raindrops hitting banana leaves, creating a knowing echo. Following his words and gaze, she brushed the wet lashes from her eyes and looked toward the car nearby.

The black umbrella tilted slightly upward, allowing her to see the man in the back seat.

Even seated, his refined stature was evident—his sharp jawline and high nose bridge catching her attention.

Winnie's gaze held polite gratitude, hoping to return this favor with a brief exchange of glances.

But the man in the car remained as he was, sitting with relaxed yet upright posture, his eyes half-closed and his brows faintly furrowed. He offered her only the side profile of quiet indifference, with a touch of impatience.

She stood in the rain; he sat in the car. She was drenched; he was pristine.

The rain blurred his outline, yet there was an inherent nobility about him, creating a sense of distance.

Indeed, even in acts of kindness, he didn't need to leave the car—his assistant handled it all.

At first glance, Winnie didn't associate him with tonight's guest of honor: Van Marlowe, heir to the Marlowe Group and the man everyone was eager to flatter. After all, the rumor mill painted Van as someone with an unremarkable appearance. Yet the man in this car, like the rare rainstorm that fell on the usually dry L.A., was unforgettable—a memory that etched itself in her mind.

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