Old Flame, New Love

— Come pick me up at 6 Laurel Avenue.

The message was from Julian Marks, Lydia Moore’s husband.

Lydia had just walked out of the Alliance Biomedical Research Institute. Her phone screen, darkened from inactivity, reflected the faint furrow between her brows.

She had been buried in the lab for days, chasing experimental data and barely sleeping at night. All she wanted was to go home, collapse on her bed, and finally sleep a full night — not drive across town to fetch Julian from a private dinner.

It only took her two seconds to decide. If she didn’t go, she probably wouldn’t get to sleep at all tonight.

The streets were clear under the late-night glow.

When Lydia arrived at 6 Laurel Avenue, it was a little past eleven.

“Right this way, ma’am.”

The restaurant manager led her through the softly lit corridor of Crescent Residence, stopping before a private room.

As soon as the door opened, a cool, low male voice drifted out. Lydia lifted her gaze instinctively — and froze mid-step.

“Mr. Marks, I’ll be counting on your guidance from now on.” Adrian Cole raised his glass, his tone smooth and polite. “This one’s to you.”

Julian clinked glasses with him, smiling faintly. “Mr. Cole, you flatter me. I’m the one who should be relying on you.”

Adrian tilted his head back, downing the drink in one go. Julian only took a symbolic sip before setting his glass down — then his eyes flicked sharply toward the doorway.

A woman stood there, wearing a slate-blue trench coat, her delicate face half-hidden behind thick black-rimmed glasses.

Julian’s gaze lingered for a beat, the expression in his eyes shifting almost imperceptibly. He turned to Adrian.

Their eyes met briefly. Then Adrian’s attention moved — toward the woman — before he looked away again.

Julian’s lips curved, a hint of amusement glinting there. He called out softly, “Lydia—”

Her eyes met his from across the room.

“Come here.”

Lydia hesitated, then stepped forward.

Julian slipped an arm around her waist and turned back to the others. “My wife, Lydia Moore.”

A ripple of surprise passed through the room.

Few had expected Julian Marks—Southport’s most notorious charmer—to be married at all, much less to someone so seemingly ordinary.

Even standing together, the two looked like an odd pairing.

“Mr. Marks, you’re married?” one man asked, incredulous. “Since when?”

Julian thought for a moment. “Almost three years. We just signed the papers. Haven’t had a wedding yet.”

“Well then,” the man chuckled, “be sure to invite us when you do. We’ll be waiting for the celebration.”

“Of course,” Julian replied easily. “You’ll all drink to your hearts’ content.”

After a few more pleasantries, he gestured to Lydia. “Honey, this is Adrian Cole, CEO of Genwell Pharmaceuticals.”

Beneath her glasses, Lydia’s lashes trembled slightly. She lifted her gaze.

Adrian extended his hand politely. “Mrs. Marks.”

She looked at him for two long seconds before placing her hand in his.

He gave the faintest, formal shake, then withdrew.

Lydia’s fingers twitched in the pocket of her coat, as if still feeling the ghost of his touch.

On the drive back, Lydia kept her eyes on the road. Julian reeked of alcohol, yet still looked sharp — lounging back in his seat, scrolling lazily through his phone.

Her focus drifted, and what should have been a forty-minute drive stretched nearly an hour. By the time they reached Crescent Court, it was close to 1 a.m.

Julian went upstairs first. Lydia sat in the car for half a minute before following.

The shower steamed with warmth.

She stood under the water, eyes closed — Adrian’s face flashing in her mind, and the look in his eyes when they met.

Julian untied his robe, his gaze trailing over her face beneath the spray. With an unhurried motion, he let the robe fall aside and stepped into the shower.

“Ah—!”

Lydia gasped as his chest pressed against her back, trapping her between him and the cool tile. Her elbow hit the wall, and pain flickered through her brow.

“What’s got you so deep in thought?” Julian murmured, his hand sliding around her waist, voice slow and teasing. “Didn’t even notice me come in.”

She brushed water from her lashes, forcing her eyes open. “The lab.”

“Oh?” His tone was casual, but his eyes darkened. “Is that so?”

“Mm.” She pushed gently at his chest. “Not tonight, Julian. I’m not in the mood.”

“What’s inconvenient?” His hand lingered against her ribs, sliding lower. “Here—or…”

“Julian!” Lydia caught his wrist, her voice tightening.

He looked down at her. “Hm?”

“I don’t want to,” she said quietly.

He tilted her chin up and brushed her lips with his. “But I do.”

His breath enveloped her, familiar and heavy.

The rest came like muscle memory.

By the time it was over, dawn was breaking.

Julian glanced at the sleeping Lydia, then slipped out of bed, threw on his robe, and left her room.

Downstairs, he grabbed a bottle of cold water from the fridge, drank half of it, and dialed back a missed call.

After two rings, the line connected.

Sitting on a barstool, he swirled the bottle in his hand. “So?” he asked.