Master of his heart (Brielle and Max)

Chapter 582

Brielle had just returned to the grandeur of the Premier Palace, her presence igniting a spark in Wesley’s eyes as he caught sight of her. “Mr. Max mentioned earlier that you wouldn’t be back tonight. Luckily, I had the kitchen whip up an extra dinner just in case. Ms. Brielle, have you had your meal yet? Both you and him have been burning the midnight oil lately. You’ve got to take care of your health.”

Indeed, the recent ordeal had left her a shade paler than usual. But with her appetite eluding her, she politely declined Wesley’s offer.

Sensing her mood, Wesley couldn’t help but inquire. “If you’re feeling down, perhaps a good book might lift your spirits? Or a stroll in the garden to admire the flowers? You’ve been at the Premier Palace for a while now, but you’ve hardly had the chance to explore. There’s even a grand private cinema here, though Mr. Max never really uses it. He rarely watches movies.”

Max was a man who seldom paused his relentless pace. His rare moments of leisure mostly involved catching up with a few friends or spending time alone with a book and a cup of coffee, occasionally indulging in a fine glass of red wine.

After dating Max, Brielle had never really shared much about his past. However, tonight, with Victoria and Alivia’s reminders, her curiosity was piqued.

“Wesley, do you have any pictures of him as a kid?”

Wesley paused, then shook his head with a hint of regret. Content © NôvelDrama.Org 2024.

“He hardly left behind any childhood photos. No photographer enjoys snapping pictures of a kid who won’t smile, and he himself was always resistant to the idea. The photo you see of him in the financial

papers? They’ve been recycling the same one for years. That’s practically the only picture of him in existence.”

Brielle felt a twinge of disappointment. She really wanted to know what Max had looked like as

a child.

Wesley’s eyes twinkled with mirth, his lips curving into a smile. “However, I’d say he looked much the same as a kid–just a mini version of his current self. Chiseled like a sculpture, he had the air of a cherubic angel. There were plenty of young ladies who would sneak glances at him. Anyone who managed to exchange a few words with him would brag about it for days in their circles.”

Brielle’s heart softened at the thought, a vivid image forming in her mind. A pint–sized Max stood aloofly at the periphery of a bustling party, his icy gaze surveying the adults mingling with their clinking glasses. Dressed in a tailor–made black suit and seeming to exist in a realm of his own. Untouched by the surrounding revelry.

The regret of not having shared in his past experiences was palpable.

“In truth, there wasn’t much excitement in his younger days. Ms. Martha always had high hopes for him. As soon as he could walk, he was reciting classics and poetry and even started

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Chapter 582

attending finance lectures at a tender age. When he wasn’t competing in contests around the world, he was on his way to one. He was busier than most adults in their circle, and he’d often work himself to the brink of exhaustion, running fevers as high as a hundred and four degrees. Michael sometimes

couldn’t bear to watch Martha push him so hard, but perhaps it was her methods that shaped the man he is today.”

Max’s childhood had always been shadowed by Martha’s presence. Now that Martha was using her own life as a bargaining chip, it was naturally distressing for him.

Wesley watched Brielle fall into contemplation and instructed the kitchen to prepare a light. soothing soup. “Ms. Brielle, you should rest after you finish your soup.”

Brielle couldn’t refuse. After sipping the warm broth, she washed up and settled into bed. Just as sleep was about to claim her, Wesley’s words echoed in her mind, and she couldn’t resist. She reached for her phone and shot Max a message.

[Is the meeting over yet?]

(Yeah, just wrapping up some data with Patrick.]

[Could you send me a picture of yourself?]

Max froze as he read the message, a flush of warmth creeping up his ears. He rarely took photos, to the point of almost never. He had reused an old photograph for an interview with a leading international newspaper abroad. Being in front of a camera made him uncomfortable. unsure of what expression to wear.

However, without hesitation, he handed his phone to Patrick.

“Patrick.”

At the sound of his name, Patrick, engrossed in data, thought something was amiss and looked up in alarm.

“Snap a photo for me.”

Patrick’s grip faltered, his pen streaking an unintended line across the paper. He gaped in disbelief, half–convinced he was hallucinating. “Sir?”

Max’s face was a mask of calm, but under the brilliant overhead lights, the sharpness of his features seemed to soften. “I said, take a picture of me.”