This Room Is Off-limits.**Genevieve's POV**

After dinner, Reginald show me around the house as a post-meal pastime. Each room was adorned with many different murals and artworks. His knowledge was extensive, and his conversation was humorous and witty. I laughed heartily all along the way.

He glanced down at his phone, left me with a quick "browse around yourself," and walked off with a furrowed brow to take a call.

That expression was exactly the same as mine when I used to receive calls from my boss after work—the only difference being that he was the boss.

I shook my head and turned around. As I rounded the corner of the hallway, my elbow brushed against a door that was slightly ajar, pushing it open a bit wider.

What room is this?

I walked in naturally and reached up to turn on the light.

The moment the light came on, it illuminated an empty room.

This room was completely different from the others. There were no lavish decorations or diverse artworks here. In fact, there was no furniture at all—only a rug on the floor and a single painting hanging on the wall.

There was even a dedicated spotlight above the painting, illuminating it. I stepped forward and looked up at the painting on the wall.

It was a sketch. The pencil lines were fine, and the strokes bore slight signs of wear, as if they had been traced over repeatedly.

The image showed a little girl crouching on the ground with her head lowered, holding a small dish in her hands. In front of her crouched a small dog with a bandage wrapped around its hind leg.

The spotlight overhead cast light on the painting, making the girl in the picture seem to glow like an angel. Unfortunately, the girl's face was turned to the side, so her features weren't clear, but judging from her bent neck and slightly parted lips, she appeared to be speaking to the injured little dog.

How adorable—talking to every little animal. I used to do that when I was young too. I would even talk to the birds flying overhead. But after growing up, I never had time to talk to little animals anymore.

I stood before the painting, tilting my head to look at it. The more I looked, the stranger I felt—it seemed somehow familiar.

Familiar, very familiar. I felt like I had seen this scene somewhere before. Had I dreamed of something similar? Or had it appeared in some TV show?

I couldn't help but take a step forward, wanting to see more clearly.

"Genevieve."

Reginald's tense voice came from behind me, as if he was afraid I might suddenly go crazy and rush forward to tear the painting apart.

Why so cautious? Am I some kind of terrible person?

I turned around to see Reginald standing in the doorway of the study, one hand braced against the doorframe and the other still holding his phone, his knuckles white from gripping it.

When I looked up at his face, I realized his expression was very wrong—as if he had been offended.

I had originally wanted to joke and ask if this room was like the secret chamber in the fairy tale "Bluebeard," but seeing how serious he was, I put away my joking thoughts and wanted to ask him what was wrong.

"This room is off-limits," he said.

His voice was very low, but every word was enunciated clearly.

Ha, I knew such a good marriage wouldn't just fall into the lap of unlucky me. Sure enough, he also had something off about him.

Now I was really starting to wonder if this was like that murder chamber in the story of "Bluebeard."

I instinctively took a step back. "...The door wasn't closed."

He didn't respond to that. He walked in, circled past me, and stood in front of the painting, blocking half of it. He stood in silence, looking up at the girl in the picture.

"Who is that?" I couldn't help but ask.

He turned his head to look at me. His green eyes were very pale in the study's light, like two freshly sprouted tender leaves.

I couldn't help but take a careful look at his chin. Fortunately, he hadn't grown a beard, or else I couldn't guarantee I could still stand here quietly listening to his story.

"She's someone I'm looking for. She saved my life. My best friend," he said slowly, as if weighing each word carefully.

"Let's go out," he said.

I stood at the doorway, my mind buzzing.

Although I knew he married me to appease his family and that there were no real feelings involved, I still couldn't help but feel a slight sourness in my heart.

Something was stuck in my throat. I just felt a tightness in my chest that made it hard to breathe.

I turned and left, returning to my own room and closing the door.

I had insomnia again. I lay with my eyes open, staring at the ceiling, thinking that I really still couldn't adapt to this kind of soft mattress.

The next morning when I got up, he was already sitting in the kitchen with two cups of coffee in front of him. One cup was pushed to the opposite seat, steam still rising from the cup's rim.

I didn't go over. I took a bottle of water from the refrigerator, turned around, and walked back to my room to change clothes and prepare to go out.

"Eve?" he called from behind me, a hint of uncertain inquiry in his voice.

"I have plans with a friend today," I said. "I might come back late tonight."

He was silent for a few seconds before asking, "...What time? Should I have the driver pick you up?"

"No need."

As I closed the door, I caught a glimpse of his expression from the corner of my eye. The corners of his mouth were slightly pursed, and there was a very faint crease between his brows, as if he was confused about what had happened.

But I couldn't possibly tell him. I couldn't very well say, "I saw the painting on your wall yesterday, and I have a feeling that when you find her, you might like her, so I need to keep my distance from you."

Too embarrassing, too ridiculous.

When I got downstairs, I realized it was Tuesday and my friends wouldn't have time to come out at all. Fortunately, I had an interview at a new company tomorrow, so I wouldn't need to find another excuse.

This street was full of luxury boutiques. I walked to the next street before finding a coffee shop. The shop had just opened. I went in, randomly ordered their signature coffee, and sat by the window researching the new company's environment and commute route.

I didn't want Reginald to send a driver for me every day—that would be too strange.

If a driver picked me up and dropped me off for work every day, I would definitely be gossiped about behind my back by colleagues and become the new topic in the break room. Well, if it were someone else, I would do the same thing.

When Reginald came home, it was already evening. When he pushed open the door and his gaze fell on my face, the corners of his mouth moved slightly, as if he wanted to smile, but when he saw my expression, that arc froze halfway.

"Have you eaten?" he said.

"Yeah."

He seemed surprised that I hadn't waited for him after dinner today. He paused for a moment and looked down at his watch.

He called the butler to prepare a meal and sat on the sofa next to me, asking, "You've already eaten even though it's only six o'clock? I haven't eaten yet. Want to eat a little more together?"

I turned off the TV, and the huge living room suddenly fell silent.

As I stood up, his gaze followed me the whole time, his eyes moist, like a big golden retriever who had something to say but didn't know how to start.

"Eve," he called out to me.

I stopped but didn't turn around.

"Today, you—" he deliberated, "are you okay?"

"I'm fine," I said. "Take your time eating. I'm going back to my room to rest first. I have an interview tomorrow."