Jarrod’s gaze remained as cool and unreadable as ever, his thoughts perhaps harboring secrets Elodie couldn’t begin to guess-but he didn’t let anything show.

His deep-set eyes lingered dispassionately, neither turning away nor lingering too long. He exuded a composure as unshakeable as bedrock.

Even now, with her beauty so plainly on display, he didn’t so much as flinch.

Honestly, Elodie almost never wore clothes like this in the past. He probably remembered that much.

The whole situation caught Elodie off guard; she’d assumed it was so late that the place would be empty. She was only startled for a moment-two seconds at most -before she snapped back to herself.

Without hesitation, she snatched up a towel nearby and wrapped it tightly around herself.

Her delicate face showed no trace of embarrassment, just a flicker of annoyance and impatience.

She turned to leave, barely pausing for breath. She didn’t plan to stick around for even a second.

“Stay.”

Jarrod’s voice sounded from behind her, calm and almost casual.

Elodie stopped and looked back. He was already standing, his tone unruffled: “I’ll go.”

She realized, after a moment’s thought, that there was no reason for her to be the one to change her plans or give ground.

So she simply stepped aside, waiting for him to gather his things and leave.

Even in the hot spring, Jarrod hadn’t taken off his clothes. He wore a plain white T-shirt, his right arm bare, the still-healing scar there stark and jarring against his skin. He quickly covered it with a towel.

Elodie had no intention of bringing up that mark—a so-called badge of honor, earned in some act of devotion to Sylvie.

Still, after soaking in the hot spring, his shirt was plastered to his torso, outlining every sculpted muscle in sharp relief.

Elodie’s expression didn’t change. She didn’t spare him another glance, just turned away. She’d always known Jarrod had an incredible physique-he lived a disciplined life and had been blessed with good genes.

But now, it meant nothing to her. He was no different than any other man.

Jarrod slipped on his robe, finally looking up at her.

“Still up this late?” he asked, tying the belt, his voice neutral and detached.

Elodie would have ignored him if she could, but with just the two of them there, his words hung in the air, impossible to brush aside. She didn’t look at him, her tone flat: “Yeah.”

Her indifference was almost palpable, radiating from her slender frame.

Jarrod paused, studying her profile for a moment. If her attitude bothered him, he didn’t let on. “Alright. Try to get some rest soon.”

He gathered his things.

As he passed by, Jarrod slowed, as if remembering something. His eyes drifted down to her midsection. “You’ve always cared about your looks. Never thought about getting that scar removed?”

Elodie’s hand instinctively went to her stomach.

She realized that, in her bikini, Jarrod must have seen everything. The thought unsettled her, though she didn’t show it.

The scar had always been there. Even during their most intimate moments, Jarrod had only ever touched it in passing, never asking questions, never showing disgust.

She knew exactly why.

Jarrod had been raised as an heir-polished, cultured, a master of etiquette. But underneath, he was cold, detached, and utterly indifferent.

He’d never loved her. That much was clear. So he didn’t care enough to notice, to worry, or to be kind.

This sudden question, she suspected, was nothing more than idle curiosity.

Elodie’s face was calm, her voice distant: “That’s my business.”

He looked down at her, his expression unchanged, eyes dark and impossible to read.

He held her gaze for a moment, then lips curled in a faint, ambiguous smile. “Enjoy your soak. No one else will bother you tonight.”

With that, he left-without a backward glance.

Elodie didn’t care in the least where Jarrod was headed now.