The Enticing CEO’s Chosen Bride
Chapter 1844

Chapter 1844

Sensing Rose's amusement, Morrison felt a wave of relief wash over him. But the harder she laughed, the more flustered he became.

As she showed no signs of stopping, Morrison gritted his teeth, his face flushing as he moved closer, and in one swift motion, he scooped Rose up and pinned her down on the bed, amidst the soft bedding.

Rose's expression wavered, making sure Morrison hadn't touched her belly. She paused for a moment, and seeing Morrison's flushed, awkward face, she couldn't help but burst into laughter again.

"You're still laughing..."

Morrison's embarrassment was tangible, his voice strained and weighted with discomfort.

Rose arched an eyebrow, "Would you prefer tears?"d2

Morrison pursed his lips, staring at her for a long while before admitting defeat, "Then laugh it is."

Rose couldn't help but feel that this was a side of Morrison she'd never seen, a far cry from the man she loved.

But wasn't it adorable?

Her smile lingered as she quietly observed him. "Whose bright idea was this anyway?"

Morrison's brow twitched, "Can't I come up with this all by myself?"

"Of course not." Rose said decisively.

"And why not?"

"Because you just wouldn't. This isn't like you at all. You wouldn't even entertain the thought unless someone suggested it. And even then, your first reaction would probably have been to dismiss it entirely. Whoever did suggest this probably got an earful from you."

Morrison fell silent. "You know me that well?"

Rose hesitated, then turned her face away.

Now it was Rose's turn to feel the heat as Morrison's lips curled into a smirk, "If you know me so well, how come you didn't realize I was in love with you?"

Rose's eyes flickered, turning back to face him, "What gave me any reason to think you loved me? You couldn't get rid of me fast enough."

Morrison took her chin in his hand, forcing her to look at him, "I was wrong, and I apologize. Is today's gesture enough for you?"

Rose blinked, "All those times you went too far, and you think one session with an onion will flip the script? Or maybe I should give you a hard time for the next seven or eight years and then cut onions for you. Would that make us even?"

Morrison pressed his forehead against hers with more force than necessary. "No."

"You see..."

"I don't want to spend another seven or eight years like this. We've already missed out on so much time, and I don't want to lose any more. Besides, you love me, and I love you. You can hold me accountable for anything from now on. If I step out of line, you can do whatever you want to me."

Rose watched him silently.

Morrison asked, "What are you thinking?"

"I'm trying to figure out how to settle the score with you. And whether I can trust what you're saying now. I don't want you to go back on your word when you're angry."

"I promise." Morrison hastily raised his hand to swear, "If I ever lose my temper with you again, I'll accept any consequences. May lightning strike me down if..."

"Morrison!" Rose interrupted.

He laughed and leaned in to kiss her lips gently. "I knew you couldn't bear it."

Rose pushed him away, "It's just that men usually make those kinds of vows as a way to trick women into forgiving them. Who believes in 'may lightning strike me down'?"

Morrison was speechless. What did you do when a woman was this tough to handle?

"So, what do you actually want?"

Rose pushed him off and sat up, throwing back the covers and climbing in.

"Today, Grandma and Mom spoke quite highly of you. Out of respect for them, I won't argue with you tonight. I'm going to sleep."

Morrison was stunned for a moment before leaning over her, "You mean you'll start arguing with me tomorrow?"

Rose curled up in the covers, "We'll see. It depends on my mood. Now move, I want to sleep."

"Depends on your mood."

Morrison watched as Rose pulled the covers around her, no longer paying him any attention. He quickly kicked the onion aside, stripped off his pants, and dove under the covers. He wrapped his arms around her tightly.

Rose glared at him, "What are you doing?"

Morrison kissed her forehead firmly, "Sleeping!"

Rose fell silent.

"Aren't you tired? Sleep, staying up is bad for you."

"Aren't you going to shower?"

"I'm clean enough."

Rose was speechless.

God, Morrison's behavior tonight was just too abnormal.

--

Meanwhile, in P City, Chloe caught a glance of Damon fresh from the shower, her eyes sparkling with mirth.

Damon sat down beside her bed, "What's got you looking so smug?"

"Guess?"

Damon raised an eyebrow, lifted the covers, and placed his warm, well-defined hands on her ankle, gently massaging it.

"Could it be your best friend finally turned the tables and sang her victory song?"

Chloe's smile grew wider, "How did you know?"

As he worked his way up her leg, Damon replied, "What else could possibly make you this excited besides her?"

Chloe batted her eyelashes, "Well, I'd be thrilled with heaps of money, too!"

Damon chuckled softly, "Then tomorrow, I'll take you to the bank for a little tour."

Chloe arched her brow, "For what?"

"To look at the account balances. If you're still not happy afterward, you can stay and play with the money."

Playing with money? Nothing beat her man.

"What if I'm unhappy again later?"

"Mmm. We might consider taking a look at our properties."

This man was really something. She knew if she kept it up, Damon would have plenty more tricks up his sleeve, but the thought of this super-rich guy being her husband made Chloe smile softly.

Damon's smile deepened. "It's great being wealthy; even my wife is easy to please."

Chloe laughed contentedly, "Lucky you're really rich."

"Lucky my wife just happens to like money."

The atmosphere between them was exceptionally harmonious, and the room's coziness soared.

Due to carrying twins, even though Chloe was over a month behind Rose, her belly was significantly larger. It was Alyssa who put it best, quipping, "That belly's changing faster than the weather—it's sprouting like a weed."

With the burgeoning belly came a heavier load for Chloe's body to bear. Nights were spent in a single, unchanging position, while a mere stroll during the day left her legs aching.

Thankfully, Damon was her steadfast companion through it all. He was like an encyclopedia, as if there was nothing he didn't understand. The do's and don'ts of a pregnancy diet, the myriad physical reactions to expect, and quick remedies for discomfort—he knew them all, rivaling any OBGYN.

At first, Chloe harbored some doubts about Damon’s extensive knowledge but chose not to probe further. Instead, she heaped praise upon him, showering him with admiration.

She stopped checking the personalized journal that Damon had dedicated himself to—a detailed record of her pregnancy and all the things she needed to pay attention to. She figured that by now, the journal must be nearly filled.

After all, no one was truly omniscient, not even Damon. Expertise required focus, and knowledge didn’t just fly into one's brain uninvited.

Some things were simple when you took a moment to think about them. Why clouded them with misunderstandings and doubts?

Yet, some people preferred to live in a widely known lie, seeing through it without calling it out.

--

The next morning, Rose woke to find Morrison's side of the bed empty. Her gaze drifted to the window, where the curtains filtered the bright morning light. Throwing off the covers, she padded

barefoot to the window and drew back the curtains, squinting against the dazzling sunlight.

When her eyes finally adjusted to the winter wonderland outside, she couldn't help but gasp. The snow had stopped, leaving a thick blanket untouched on the ground, pristine and inviting.

The urge to play was irresistible—to write elegant words in the snow, draw an animal, build a snowman, or even start a snowball fight.

After a quick shower and dressing warmly, she hurried downstairs. But as she reached the living room, a sudden realization stopped her in her tracks.

Her little Moon! She had actually forgotten her little Moon.

With a frustrated sigh, she was about to call the property management when Morrison suddenly appeared. "Where are you headed?" he asked.

Rose nearly dropped her phone at the sight of him—Morrison, with a shovel in one hand and a bottle of soy sauce in the other, wearing her usual red checkered apron, his hair tousled, and the apron dotted with stains, presumably from the soy sauce.

"What on earth are you doing?" she asked.

"Making breakfast. It'll be ready in a jiffy," Morrison replied.

Breakfast? Rose was stunned. Was Morrison the breakfast-making type?

She headed to the kitchen, where a smoky aroma wafted her way. "Cough. What are you cooking?"

Morrison hastily turned off the stove. The eggs in the frying pan were charred beyond recognition.

Without a word, Rose turned and left the kitchen, leaving Morrison behind with a scowl. He expected her to rail against him, but instead, she simply advised, "Keep the heat low," before

disappearing. Morrison cleaned the pan and tried again, this time with lower heat.

Sitting at the dining table, Rose gazed out at the snow, lost in thought, until Morrison finally set a tray before her—a bowl of oatmeal, a sandwich, a plate of pasta, and two side dishes she had prepped before. He recognized them, he had eaten them a few times.

Rose eyed the breakfast then looked up at Morrison, who sat opposite her, looking slightly awkward but hopeful.

"Try it, it's not bad. I tasted everything myself," he said.

Rose took a spoonful of oatmeal, detecting a faint burnt taste.

"Well?" Morrison asked nervously.

"It's okay," she replied, taking another bite, which seemed to relax Morrison.

As she continued eating quietly, her attention was drawn to his hands clasped at the edge of the table. She could see the burn marks on his skin clearly.

But how could preparing breakfast result in so many burns? She felt a twinge of sympathy. She knew Morrison wasn't the type to step into a kitchen. Born into the Witt family, his life was about learning business management and self-preservation. With servants at home, kitchen duties had nothing to do with him.

Yet here he was, trying his hand at cooking.

After finishing her oatmeal, Rose casually asked, "Have you eaten?"

Morrison confirmed he had, then asked, "Where were you planning to go?"

"To my apartment. Little Moon is still there, and I don't know how he's doing."

Morrison's expression relaxed upon hearing little Moon, "You go ahead and eat. I'll come with you."

Rose finished her meal and carried the empty dishes to the kitchen. As she entered, her gaze fell upon the compost bin, and she paused for a moment.

The bin was quite large, but it was filled to the brim with an assortment of yellowing oatmeal, alongside seven or eight scrambled eggs that had seen better days. Some of the eggs bore the unmistakable imprint of a bite.

Clearly, someone had tried to eat them.

Placing the tray in the sink, Rose leaned against the edge, sighed lightly, and ran a hand through her forehead.

No wonder he said he had eaten; no wonder he had so many burns on his hands.

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