Chapter 1692:
The Fords returned to the hotel. Chelsea eyed Jules from head to toe. “Did Michael give you a hard time?”
With how Michael’s attitude had changed, she guessed something serious had happened.
But during the ride, Jules hadn’t shown a hint of it.
Rachel opened her mouth to speak, but Jules gently squeezed her hand, and she lowered her head, eyes brimming with tears. “No. If there’s nothing else, I’ll rest now,” Jules answered.
Chelsea nodded. “Alright.”
Once in his room, Jules went straight to the bathroom.
He undressed and stood under the shower.
Water poured over him, washing away a faint trail of blood.
He braced one arm against the wall, letting the water run down the wound on his back.
It had been years since his last training. His reflexes weren’t what they used to be. That was why he didn’t notice the trap that struck him from behind.
Just then, the bathroom door opened.
He turned slightly and saw Rachel walk in, her cheeks red. He frowned.
“Why are you here?”
From where she stood, she could clearly see the injury on his back. Her eyes welled up. She bit her lip and whispered, “I… I came to help you with the ointment.”
Jules stared at her. “Aren’t you afraid of me anymore?”
That simple question brought back memories of their wedding night—memories that still made Rachel blush with embarrassment.
She felt like he’d tease her about that for the rest of their lives. “I’m not scared of you. You’re hurt, and it’s not good to leave the wound wet. It could get worse,” she said, her voice soft but steady.
“Alright,” Jules replied, his tone light. He noticed how she avoided eye contact. “It’s not convenient in here. Let’s go outside.”
“Alright.”
Jules wrapped a towel around his waist and led her out of the bathroom. They sat on the sofa. Rachel gently dried his back and began applying the ointment. As she touched the injury, tears filled her eyes. Her voice trembled. “I’m sorry. It’s my fault you got hurt.”
𝖂𝗋𝗂𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗇 𝖿𝗂𝗋𝗌𝗍 𝖋𝗈𝗋 galn𝗈v𝖊𝗅𝘀．𝖼𝗈𝗆
“We’re married now. Your family is mine too. If your grandfather wants to punish me, I should accept it.”
Jules looked at her reflection in the window and saw the tears fall from her chin. His brows furrowed. “Don’t cry.”
Worried she’d upset him, Rachel quickly sniffled and held back her tears.
She wasn’t someone who cried easily. But seeing Jules like this—it broke something in her.
“You shouldn’t have agreed so quickly to what my grandfather asked. The training room is meant for Astley family members who break the rules. What if something had happened to you in there?”
Franco had once told her about his own punishment when he was younger. He’d caused big trouble and was sent there. Even now, he said it wasn’t a place normal people could survive.
Fortunately, Michael had forgiven them—had he not, everything Jules had endured would have been for nothing.
Rachel knew it was her reckless choices that had led them to this point, yet Jules had been the one to shoulder the consequences.
The weight of that truth pressed heavily on her chest, flooding her with remorse. The pain he suffered—because of her—was a debt she couldn’t shake.
Jules saw the guilt pooling in her eyes and comforted her. “What’s done is done. It’s handled now. No need to dwell on it.”
“Okay.” Rachel nodded. “You rest a bit. I’ll get you something to eat.”
She couldn’t stop thinking that he hadn’t eaten a single thing all day. And Jules knew—if he didn’t accept now, she’d keep at it until he did. So, he didn’t object.
As he reflected on her persistence, something softened in him. The chill in his gaze gave way to something warmer—gentler.
He found himself thinking of his mother, Chelsea. She, too, had been relentless with her reminders, and yet Jayden had adored her for over two decades without ever growing weary of it. Maybe now he was beginning to understand why.
He rose, crossed the room to the liquor cabinet, and poured himself a drink. As the glass touched his lips, his phone rang.
Corrine.
He stepped onto the balcony, glass in hand, and answered with easy familiarity. “Still awake?”
“Aren’t you?” Corrine’s voice was crisp on the line. “So? What magic did you use to flip Michael’s opinion of the Ford family so fast?”
“Charm.”
“You’re shameless.”
Jules chuckled quietly, not bothering to deny it. After a pause, he added, “Franco said Michael just needed a way to vent. So, I offered myself up in the Astley family’s training room. Took a few hits, passed a few tests.”
Some of the bruises were thanks to his rusty form—but part of it had been intentional. A calculated gamble. A sacrifice to earn Michael’s sympathy.
The ointment Rachel brought that night? That had been the sign. Michael’s silent gesture of acceptance. His way of acknowledging Jules not just as Rachel’s husband, but as family.
The old Jules might’ve dismissed the Astleys’ opinions. After all, he and Rachel were already married, on paper and in law. But watching her caught between loyalties had changed something in him. He wanted to spare her that weight—quietly, without fanfare.
Corrine, unaware of the depth behind his silence, asked, “Are the injuries serious? Will they interfere with your plans?”
“Nothing to worry about.”
The day of the celebration arrived in the blink of an eye. Chosen by the Astley family, the venue was a pinnacle of elegance—a luxury hotel dressed in celebratory splendor.
The grandeur of the party rivaled that of the official ceremony held in Lyhaton.
By eleven a.m., the banquet hall was brimming with guests.
Laughter, greetings, and the clinking of glasses filled the space with vibrant life.
At noon, Jules and Rachel stepped into the hall, hand in hand, dressed in sharp elegance that turned heads instantly.
The striking couple quickly became the focus of whispered conversations and admiring glances.
“The Ford family really hit the jackpot, forming an alliance with the Astleys.”
“Is that so? Have you looked into the groom’s background?”
“Forget his background—did you see Michael’s face? The way he smiled at the groom? That says everything.”
Upstairs, Corrine stood quietly in the second-floor corridor, watching the scene unfold below—hundreds of people, the sound of celebration, the glitter of crystal and gold.
“You seem to have time on your hands,” Franco remarked behind her. She turned slightly, offering him a faint, reserved smile. “And you don’t?”
Franco leaned against the ornately carved railing, lighting a cigarette with practiced ease. Through a drift of smoke, he said, “My father’s attitude toward Jules has shifted. You can stop worrying now.”
“With you pulling strings behind the scenes, there’s little left for me to worry about,” Corrine said. She paused, then added with quiet sincerity, “Thank you.”
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.
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