Have You Been Searching For Her?**Genevieve's POV**

"I heard you crying," he said. His voice was low, hoarse like sandpaper scraping across wood.

He straightened and took half a step forward. The moonlight shifted away from his face, and when I looked at him again, those vertical pupils were gone. It was as if everything I'd just seen had been a hallucination after my nightmare.

"You had a nightmare."

My throat was so dry and tight I couldn't get a single word out. Those slit-pupil eyes of his were far more terrifying than any nightmare I'd just had.

"Go back and lie down. I'll get you some water." His voice was soft and low, gentle in a way that seemed almost unreal.

"I'm suddenly not that thirsty anymore. You should go back to sleep." After refusing him, I retreated to my room and locked the door. Even though I knew it was probably just the moonlight playing tricks on my eyes, I still didn't quite dare to be alone with him right now.

I lay in bed unable to sleep, picked up my phone, and posted a simple Instagram photo—just a shot of my left hand with the ring catching the light. The caption read only: "Married."

After posting, I placed my phone face-down on the nightstand and fell asleep.

When I woke up, my phone screen was flooded with messages.

Friend Jessica had sent eight question marks. Friend Lauren had called—I'd missed it because my phone was on silent. Friend Emma directly asked if I'd been kidnapped. Even that neighbor in Brooklyn I rarely contacted had sent a "Seriously???"

I sat on the edge of my bed scrolling through them one by one, looking at all those question marks and exclamation marks bombarding me, and suddenly felt like laughing. It made sense—last week I'd been complaining about not meeting any decent men, and this week I was posting a wedding ring. Anyone would be confused.

Friend A kept asking who it was. I replied, "I'll introduce you guys sometime," and she responded, "You'd better."

Smiling, I pushed open my bedroom door. Reginald was eating breakfast in the dining room. He wore a dress shirt but no tie, sleeves casually rolled up twice, revealing the solid lines of his forearms. He looked up when he saw me: "There's a family dinner in a few days. My people want to meet you."

"Your people?" I looked up, my spoon still hovering above my bowl.

"Family. Not many people, but you need to meet them." He said it casually, as if he were just telling me we needed to go to the supermarket on weekend. "Don't worry about the dress—someone will deliver it."

"What? A dress?" Why did I need to wear a formal dress?

"A dress," he repeated. "I've already given them your measurements."

Huh? When did he measure me?

That afternoon, while I was preparing documents for job interviews, the doorbell rang. At the door stood a man in a suit, wearing white gloves, with two people behind him pushing mobile clothing racks.

The racks were hung with black garment bags—so many they almost buried the two people carrying them.

"Ms. Genevieve, Mr. Reginald has commissioned us to deliver this season's ready-to-wear for you to try on. Anything that doesn't fit, we'll alter on-site."

"All of these are for me?"

"Yes. Thirteen tops, seven bottoms, nine dresses, five coats, three evening gowns, and various accessories." The man recited the list like a menu, then smiled. "If there are any sizing issues, we'll adjust immediately."

Having only ever bought clothes on sale, I'd never encountered anything like this. I was starting to suspect Reginald might actually be wealthy.

I turned to look at Reginald, who was sitting at the kitchen island drinking coffee. His expression showed no reaction, as if having clothes delivered was as ordinary as getting takeout.

Noticing my gaze, he raised an eyebrow: "Keep what you like. Have them take back what you don't."

"Do you know how much all this costs?" I lowered my voice to ask him.

"No idea."

I bet in his mind he was thinking, "I never look at prices when I shop." Damn him.

I randomly pulled out a dress and checked its tag. I'd seen this brand in magazines—one of their scarves cost as much as a month's rent for me.

I took a deep breath. He really was wealthy. At least his family was very wealthy.

"You never told me you were this rich." Would someone like this really lack marriage prospects?

Reginald tilted his head and replied, "Just middle class. And this is the first time you've asked me."

I couldn't argue with that.

The fitting took nearly two hours. The person in the mirror seemed to suddenly transform into a version of myself I'd never seen before.

Reginald came in once midway through, leaning against the doorframe: "Keep the white one. Wear it to the dinner." Then he left.

I stared at myself in the white dress in the mirror. Honestly, it looked good. But what I was thinking was: just how rich is this man?

After finishing the fitting, I collapsed on the sofa. He took away my coffee cup and turned to go to the kitchen counter to make a second one.

I tilted my head to watch him operate the espresso machine. He studied the portafilter for a long time, tapped the basket and set it down, then picked up the instruction manual and started reading.

After about two minutes, he walked over carrying half a cup of something that looked very wrong in color.

I looked down at it: "...What is this?"

"Coffee."

"Reginald, this is a cup of gray water." I tried to hold it in but couldn't—I laughed. "You don't even know how to use a coffee machine?"

His expression didn't change much, but the tips of his ears slowly started turning red. From the earlobes to the rim, burning upward from below, showing a layer of extremely pale pink.

"My assistant usually makes it," he said.

"Then why are you doing it yourself today?"

He didn't answer, standing there holding that cup of "gray water," his ears growing even more obviously red.

I stood up and walked over, taking the portafilter from his hand: "I'll teach you."

He stood beside me. I could even smell that faint cedar scent. I removed the basket to show him: "The grounds need to be pressed flat, not too loose, or the water pressure won't extract evenly."

He looked down at my hands, his nose very close to the top of my head.

I looked at his pink ear tips and suddenly wanted to know what someone who blushed so easily had been like as a child.

"Reginald," I said, filling the portafilter with coffee grounds, "what were you like... as a child?"

He paused. The living room light came from behind him, wrapping his entire figure in a warm yellow outline.

"When I was young." He repeated those words, his gaze falling on some spot on the floor. "Nothing special, but once I was badly injured... lost a lot of blood. I thought I wouldn't survive."

His voice was flat as he spoke, as if talking about someone else.

"Someone saved me," he continued. "I didn't know her, didn't know her name."

He suddenly showed a smile, his eyes gentle as water as he stared at the floor, lashes pressed very low: "She bandaged my wounds, thought I was a young..."

"I mean, an infant. Fed me only milk for a whole month. Nearly starved to death."

While his words complained about nearly starving to death, his expression unconsciously became sweet and happy.

I held my coffee cup, looking at his profile: "Have you been searching for her?"

"Yes. I want to thank her."

"Did you find her?"

He was quiet for a long time, so long I thought he wouldn't answer. Then he turned his head to look at me, his gaze settling on my face.

"I don't know," he said. "Not certain yet."

Either you found her or you didn't—what did "I don't know" mean?

But I didn't ask anything. I just lowered my head and took a sip of coffee.

"Thank you for the coffee."

He didn't answer. Just when I thought he hadn't heard, his voice came from the counter area, very soft, as if afraid of disturbing something.

"You're welcome. I'm the one who should be thanking you."