His Belated Love for the Abandoned Ex-Wife Chapter 29: Found in His Room

Iris stepped inside and closed the door behind her.

The room was a little outdated in style, but it was clean, spacious, and strangely comfortable. A large desk sat against one wall, tidy and bare except for a lamp. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves were packed with all kinds of titles, most related to finance or management.

There was a private closet, a bathroom, and a balcony door with pale blue curtains drawn across it.

The bed was massive, sitting right in the center of the room. Julian was sprawled across it, limbs stretched wide, dead asleep.

Iris didn't rush to take care of him. Instead, she wandered slowly through the space. In the two years they'd been married, she'd never once stepped into his old room.

She moved toward the bookshelf, letting her gaze skim across the spines. Business books, global economics, market strategy—nothing surprising.

But then, tucked in the corner, something caught her eye. Clinical Pharmacology?

Why would a book like that be on Julian's shelf? She pulled it out, flipping through it casually. And froze.

Her entire body tensed. Goosebumps shot up her arms.

It was filled with her handwriting—her notes, her highlights. She recognized every line.

She hurried to the first page. Her name, Iris Whitlow, written in her own hand. This was her textbook from college.

Her heart pounded. Her back turned cold. She tried to remember if maybe she'd packed it by accident when they moved after the wedding.

Maybe she had. That had to be it. There was no other explanation that made sense.

She slid the book back exactly where it had been.

Then turned and walked over to the bed. It was the first time she'd ever seen Julian asleep up close.

Even drunk, he looked composed. But her heartbeat was racing. Her cheeks were warm. She stood there, unsure where to start or what to do.

There was no way she could give him a shower. But she could at least help him lie more comfortably.

She slipped off her heels, climbed onto the bed, and sat beside him. Tugging gently on his shirt, she tried to pull him toward the center.

Either she was too weak, or he was built like a tank.

He didn't budge.

Breathing heavily, she gave up and shifted closer, reaching for his tie.

She loosened it carefully, then worked on removing his blazer. With him lying flat, it wasn't easy. She had to roll him slightly to each side to pull the sleeves off.

By the time she managed it, she was sweating and out of breath. She'd never realized a drunk person could be this heavy or this deeply unconscious.

She tossed the jacket to the floor, then gently lifted his wrist to remove his watch.

Her fingers brushed against his—broad, warm, familiar. The contact made her pause. Something in her chest ached.

She remembered their first date after being matched. They'd gone to the movies. It had gone surprisingly well. Comfortable and promising.

The theater lights had dimmed. Julian had reached out, quietly slipping his hand into hers.

She'd nearly jumped out of her seat.

That nervous flutter, that sudden heat rushing through her—that moment had stayed with her all this time.

She hadn't remembered a single detail of the movie. Just the way her heart pounded. How tightly she'd clenched his hand. How sweaty her palms had been.

She'd asked him afterward, "Aren't we moving too fast?"

His voice had been so gentle. "No. We're looking to build something real."

She'd blushed. "I want to save anything intimate for after marriage. Until then, holding hands is as close as I go."

And he'd said, "I respect that."

Back then, she thought marriage would be the beginning of something beautiful. But three months in, it was already over.

He hadn't held her hand since. Let alone anything else.

She set his watch on the nightstand and lowered her eyes, refusing to let herself miss the warmth of his hands.

Her chest tightened. Her throat ached.

If she hadn't fallen in love with him, how much easier would everything be? No hopes. No heartbreak.

She slid off the bed, sat beside him again, and removed his shoes and socks. Then, quietly, she reached for his belt.

He was lying on his back. She didn't know if drunk men still... reacted. She wasn't about to find out.

Her cheeks were burning. Her hands trembled slightly as she worked the belt loose, avoiding eye contact with his body like it would catch fire.

By the time she was done, her nerves were fried. Completely drained, she lay down next to him, facing his profile in the dark.

His skin wasn't fair, but it was smooth and clean. His brows were thick, his eyes deep-set. Straight nose, full lips, strong jawline—he was almost painfully handsome.

Almost before she realized what she was doing, her fingers reached out and brushed against his jaw.

There was a hint of stubble. Soft, barely noticeable. No reaction.

Her fingers wandered, brushing lightly across his lips. The touch sent a jolt through her, like static across her skin, radiating from her hand through her whole body.

Her breath hitched. Her face was on fire. She swallowed hard, chest tightening.