The High-Libido CEO’s Cold Wife Chapter 08
My reason for meeting Lydia had nothing to do with Julian.
I did not allow private feelings to interfere with scientific work.
More importantly, my impression of Lydia differed from the comments’ portrayal of her.
Their claims affected my emotions, but not enough to destroy my judgment.
However convincing the comments sounded, I refused to surrender my judgment and let an invisible audience manufacture an enemy for me.
At the ocean-view café, Lydia walked toward my table.
She wore shorts and a strapless top, and her hair fell in loose waves.
Without her glasses and conservative work clothes, she barely resembled the shy, inexperienced intern who had collided with me at Caldwell Holdings.
As she sat down, her hair shifted and revealed fading marks near her collarbone.
The marks were intimate enough that my heart contracted before reason had a chance to intervene.
I reminded myself there could be an explanation.
The marks on Lydia’s skin did not necessarily have anything to do with Julian.
The comments immediately pressed on the wound.
[Those marks hurt to see, don’t they?]
[Her neck isn’t the only place covered in them.]
[She looks shy and quiet at work, but she’s passionate in private.]
[Even Julian couldn’t resist that kind of contrast.]
[He had one taste and became addicted.]
[Exactly. Why else would he drive to Ocean Drive every night and spend the entire weekend inside that villa?]
[Everything Chloe denied him, Lydia gave back twice over.]
For the first time, I desperately wished the strange barrage came with a mute button.
They took every detail, chose the most damaging interpretation, and repeated it until suspicion
began to feel like evidence.
I might have been the supporting character in their story, but I had never deliberately harmed
anyone.
Why did they direct so much hostility at me?
Why were they so determined to turn Lydia and me against each other?
I forced my attention back to the purpose of our meeting and explained both my botanical work and
the Sirenthorn research in terms Lydia could follow.
Admiration filled Lydia’s face. “Wow, Mrs. Caldwell, you’re a botanist?
That’s incredible.”
I handed her a photograph of the vine. “Lydia, have you ever been pricked by this plant?”
She grabbed my hand as if she had finally found someone who understood. “How did you know?
Is this Sirenthorn?”
“Sirenthorn is only our laboratory code name.” I studied her fingertips.
A cluster of more than a dozen needle-sized scars confirmed repeated exposure long before Lydia
finished her explanation.
“Six months ago, I went hiking in a valley with some friends,” she began. “I saw a beautiful vine that looked exactly like this.”
“I wore gloves, dug it up, and replanted it in a pot at home.”
“One day, I forgot my gardening gloves while trimming it, and one of the thorns pierced me.”
“A drop of pale blue blood came out.”
Her cheeks turned pink as she searched for a discreet description. “Then my body began reacting in
ways that were… difficult to manage.”
I nodded in understanding. “What happened afterward?
How many times were you exposed?”
“After the first time, I started craving the prick of the thorns. Every few days, I wanted to do it
again.”
“It happened twelve or thirteen times altogether.”
“After the third exposure, my body became difficult to control. I kept…”
Lydia sighed and abandoned the explanation. “It was miserable.”
Then she changed direction. “Mrs. Caldwell, I don’t want to live this way.”
“Your laboratory is developing an antidote, isn’t it? Could I volunteer for the clinical testing?”
