The Retired CEO's Guide To Being Spoiled Chapter 142: The Cold Floor

If even those who shared the sa bloodline could be so devoid of affection, so ready to turn and tear each other apart for the sake of money and fa, how could Julian dare to place his entire heart, his life, and his future into the hands of a stranger with whom he shared no blood ties?

Even if Ethan Caldwell was currently good to him, even if the man spoiled him to the heavens, facts remained facts. Emotions were the most volatile variable in the universe. They changed like the weather. Today, you might be soone’s precious treasure, held in the palm of their hand. Tomorrow, you could be a stranger, discarded and forgotten.

Julian lifted his head, water dripping rhythmically from his chin onto his chest, soaking the front of his sleepwear. The eyes looking back at him in the mirror no longer held the hazy, dreamy look of a spoiled lover. The petulance was gone. In its place was a gaze that was sharp, cold, and steely with determination.

He had to stand up. He had to proceed with the plan he had discussed with Lucas Hill. He needed his own career. He needed his own money. He needed a retreat route that belonged solely to him.

Only "he" would never betray himself.

With that thought firmly planted in his mind, Julian grabbed a plush towel and dried his face. The soreness in his body was still there, a dull throb accompanying his every move, but it was no longer an excuse to lie idle. Instead, it beca a motivation, a physical reminder to never let himself fall into a passive position again.

He adjusted his clothes, took a deep breath to steady his composure, and turned the handle of the bathroom door.

However, the very mont the bathroom door creaked open, Julian was stopped in his tracks.

A rich, overwhelming aroma surged into his nostrils, flooding his senses. It was a scent so warm and comforting that it instantly dispelled the cold, solitary fortress Julian had just ntally constructed around himself.

It wasn’t the sll of expensive cologne, nor the scent of the luxury essential oils that usually perfud the room.

It was the sll of food.

Specifically, it was the savory, earthy scent of glutinous rice that had been simred for hours until it broke down into a creamy consistency. This base was perfectly entwined with the distinct, briny sweetness of fresh seafood, perhaps shrimp or scallops, and cut through with the sharp, spicy warmth of julienned ginger. It was the sll of ho, of care, of sothing painstakingly prepared.

Julian froze in the doorway, his hand still on the latch. His eyes widened slightly as he looked toward the main sleeping area.

He didn’t know when it had happened, but Ethan Caldwell was there.

The man was sitting on the edge of the bed, casual and imposing all at once, the very picture of the dostic dominance Julian had just been warring against in his mind. On the bedside table sat a steaming bowl of porridge, the source of the heavenly aroma that was currently making Julian’s traitorous stomach grumble in protest against his earlier resolve.

Julian blinked, the sharp steel in his eyes softening involuntarily. He had expected to co out to an empty room, to solidify his resolve in solitude. He hadn’t expected the "detestable man" to materialize so quickly, bringing with him the very comfort Julian had sworn to resist.

The man who, only minutes prior, had been the subject of Julian Sterling’s turbulent longing and fearful calculations, was now sitting with an air of relaxed, imperial leisure on the edge of the bed.

Ethan Caldwell had shed the rigid armor of his business attire. Gone was the tailored suit that scread of corporate dominance, replaced by a set of high-quality loungewear in a deep charcoal hue. The fabric looked soft, draping over his fra in a way that hinted at the powerful muscles beneath rather than constricting them. He had rolled the sleeves of his shirt up several tis, exposing forearms that were tanned and corded with veins, arms that spoke of a raw, physical strength often hidden beneath his polished exterior.

Positioned right next to the bed, on a small mobile table that had been wheeled into place, sat a tray of white porcelain. Upon it rested a bowl of porridge, steam rising from it in lazy, spiraling ribbons that danced in the quiet air of the room. Beside the main bowl were several small, delicate saucers containing various seasonings and garnishes, along with a glass of warm water. The dosticity of the scene was so profound it was almost jarring.

Hearing the faint click of the bathroom door opening, Ethan lifted his head. His gaze, dark and unfathomable as the deep ocean, swept across the room. It lingered for a heartbeat on Julian’s face, taking in the lingering pallor and the shadows of exhaustion that still clung to his eyes, before traveling downward. His eyes narrowed slightly as they landed on Julian’s bare feet, the pale skin stark against the dark, polished wood of the floor.

The man’s brows knitted together in a frown of displeasure: "Why are you walking barefoot?"

"Ah, I forgot." Julian replied, his voice feigning a nonchalance he did not entirely feel. He made a move to turn back toward the bed, intending to walk the few steps himself.

However, before he could take a single stride, the man had already risen. Ethan moved with the swift, predatory grace of a panther, closing the distance between them in so long strides. Before Julian’s brain could even process the sudden proximity or send a command to his legs to retreat, he felt the world tilt.

His body suddenly felt weightless. Ethan had bent down and scooped him up effortlessly, one arm supporting his back and the other hooked firmly under his knees. He lifted Julian horizontally as easily as if he were holding a feather or a small child, the physical disparity between them made blatantly obvious in that single motion.

"How many tis must I repeat myself?" Ethan’s voice rumbled through his chest, vibrating against Julian’s side: "The floor is cold. You have not fully recovered yet, do not walk around barefoot like this."

The man grumbled his complaints as he carried Julian back toward the massive King-size bed. Ethan’s tone was deceptively calm, casual even, as if he were scolding a disobedient pet. Yet, the arms holding Julian were anything but casual. They tightened around him, a fortress of flesh and bone, exuding a stability and warmth that felt dangerously addictive.

Julian instinctively leaned his head against the man’s broad chest. Through the thin fabric of the loungewear, he could hear the steady, rhythmic thud of Ethan’s heart.

Thump-thump. Thump-thump.

It was a sound of vitality, of power, of life.

Inside Julian, a wave of complex emotions began to swell, threatening to crash over the breakwater of reason he had just painstakingly reconstructed in the bathroom.