Chapter 5: Can You Always Be My Brother?

Quentin looked at her for a long while.

He didn't speak for an extended time, and when he finally did, his voice was gentlemanly, polite, and deeply somber. "Good morning."

"G-good morning, Brother." Clara backed away several steps, leaning against the wall for support.

With a loud

thud

, she slammed the door shut!

Five minutes later, the door opened again. Clara had changed into a modest, oil-painting style beach dress. She feigned composure and said, "Big Brother, you're here."

Despite her change of clothes, certain images remained etched in Quentin's mind. He spoke casually, "Elliot had some urgent matters to handle back home. He asked me to come and keep you company."

Clara gave a soft "oh." "That's so sudden."

"Where do you two plan to go today?" Quentin reached down to pick up a blanket that had fallen on the floor, placing it in the laundry basket.

Feeling incredibly guilty, Clara gave a vague answer, "Just going to the beach."

Just as Quentin set the blanket down, he caught sight of something on the service shelf—a pair of swim trunks provided by the hotel.

They were black with a dark grey-blue pattern.

Quentin picked them up, his expression unreadable. "With eight hunks?"

Clara’s smile froze. She stammered and stuttered for a moment before starting to make excuses. "No, not really."

"I'm mostly hanging out with Cynthia."

Cynthia.

Her again.

Ever since they were children, she had been leading Clara astray, encouraging her to do outrageous things. Calling each other "sister" all day long—anyone who didn't know better would think Clara was

her

sister.

Quentin’s brow furrowed. His expression did not soften at the mention of Cynthia’s name.

Clara licked her dry lips, breaking the eerie silence. "Have you eaten?"

"Maybe we should go grab lunch first."

Quentin agreed. As he turned, he saw the backless design of Clara’s beach dress again. There were only two thin straps holding the back together.

Clara walked ahead with an air of confidence. She was certain that since this was her most "modest" outfit, her eldest brother wouldn't have anything to complain about.

Quentin remained quiet for a long time. "This dress..."

Clara felt she had made the right choice. "How is it? Does it look good?"

Quentin forced himself to swallow the phrase "lacks fabric" and followed her lead. "It’s very beautiful."

Clara beamed with joy.

Then she heard him add, "The one from earlier was very beautiful, too."

Quentin continued, "It’s good to dress up when going out with friends."

"But if you're going to play with men and they still expect you to dress that beautifully, they're earning their money far too easily."

Clara nodded. "I guess so."

"Wait," Clara quickly corrected herself, "I'm not going to play with... you know."

Quentin’s voice remained as calm as a deep well. "What are you afraid of? Go if you want to."

"It’s rare for you to get away. If you insist on seeing such low-quality types, it’s not like I’m going to hit you."

Clara blinked. "Really?"

"Really." Quentin didn't even look at her.

In the past, as a guest professor, he had spoken to students on a research project in the same way: "What are you afraid of? Leave if you want to."

"If you insist on leaving, it’s not like I’m going to hit you."

No one ever dared to leave.

Quentin believed his sarcasm had been obvious enough. The deterrent was in place.

However, by evening, the beach bar was a riot of neon lights and music.

Clara sat in the very first row below the stage, enjoying the show. Blurred circles of dizzying purple and red lights spread out, turning the atmosphere sultry to the beat of the drums.

Across from her, Cynthia had a strange expression. "You said your big brother is here, and he actually let you come?"

"Yeah." Clara was very happy. "He said I could come if I wanted to, since I'm on vacation."

A sudden wave of screams drowned out Clara’s words.

In a shadow on the second-floor observation deck where the lights couldn't reach, Quentin gripped his glass tightly, a vein throbbing in his temple.

On stage, a group of Western muscle-bound men draped in various chains flaunted their physiques. Kneeling, binding, and props—they had it all.

Some even wore lace over their waists or eyes... it was utterly scandalous.

Screams and cheers rose and fell in succession.

Cynthia was curious. "Were those his exact words?"

Clara thought back. "That’s what he said."

Cynthia couldn't imagine it and remained skeptical. In her memory, Quentin—who watched over his sister like a father over a daughter—had warned her more than once.

It could be traced back to when Clara was six and losing her baby teeth. It started with Cynthia secretly giving her chocolate. Then when Clara was twelve, she helped her skip class. At eighteen, she took her to a bar.

Quentin had a major problem with her. But Cynthia didn't care. She hadn't led the girl astray. Besides, she wasn't some kind of delinquent.

Cynthia leaned against the table, playing with her wine glass.

Clara’s eyes were bright, filled with the excitement and agitation of seeing something brand new, yet mixed with a curious, shy awkwardness.

Cynthia took a sip of sweet wine and signaled for the male models to come down for interaction.

Clara became even shyer. As bold as her words had been earlier, she was just as timid now. Faced with so many muscular men surrounding her and inviting her to play, she couldn't even bring herself to reach out. Her cheeks were flushed deep red.

Cynthia naturally accepted the men’s attentions and reminded them, "She’s just a little sister. Let her take her time; don't scare her."

The men Cynthia had invited were very well-behaved. They sat on either side of the girls, passing fruit and drinks, clearly knowing how to treat different types of guests.

A younger man sat next to Clara, wearing beast ears and bells. Starting with simple chatter about the island, Clara soon relaxed. After a couple of drinks and some idle talk, it was time for the next round of performances.

As the men moved away, Clara noticed that the wine bottle next to Cynthia was empty. She moved over. "In a bad mood?"

Cynthia smiled. "Just the usual company stuff."

Cynthia was the only daughter of the family and had reached the age to inherit the business. But there were several uncles above her. In a wealthy family like theirs, it was common for them to marginalize a girl in the company. Their methods were often underhanded.

"They're still making trouble," Clara noted, nudging Cynthia's elbow. "My big brother is good at dealing with that. That's how he made his way up."

"Why don't I take you to ask him tomorrow?"

Cynthia arched an eyebrow. "Ha, no thanks."

"Quentin probably wants to sell me off to Africa to dig for oil right about now."

"My brother is a very good person."

"That’s only because he’s

your

brother." Cynthia pulled her closer amidst the deafening music, still curious. "Clara, tell me seriously, how did your brother agree to let you see a hunk show?"

Clara repeated Quentin’s words.

Cynthia narrowed her eyes, seriously doubting that Quentin had used the same light, cheerful, and understanding tone Clara was using. Based on her knowledge, Quentin was unpredictable and deep-thinking. Sometimes he would say things without making them clear, leaving the listener feeling anxious.

But Clara wasn't like that. Clara’s thoughts were very direct. Cynthia always believed Clara had a very clean soul. As someone burdened by mundane troubles, she loved being with Clara, escaping the world, escaping order, and doing things that were "out of line."

Cynthia also hadn't been able to figure it out these past few days—why the Harrison family would have such a massive scandal. But given what she knew of the family twenty-odd years ago, the place really had been a mess. In a way, such a mistake wasn't surprising for the Harrisons of that era.

After all, the seven or eight years of love-hate entanglement between Harrison and Penelope was the most talked-about high-society melodrama in Harbor Bay back then. Marrying, divorcing, and marrying again.

And the little princess, Clara, was the most beautiful ending to that melodramatic story. After she was born, the couple was deeply in love, and the group flourished. No one expected that twenty years later, the world would be turned upside down because of her origins.

Seeing Clara drinking without restraint today, Cynthia could tell she was in a bad mood. But she didn't mention the things that would make her even unhappier.

Clara just wanted to try using alcohol to drown her sorrows.

At a crucial point in the conversation, Cynthia felt she had to remind her. "Yes, your brother is someone who has handled inheritance battles."

"But those people are just waiting for your dad and brother to make a mistake."

"If they use the negative impact of this incident to pressure them at the group... if there’s any trouble, remember to come to me."

Clara wouldn't go to her. Cynthia had enough troubles of her own; Clara wouldn't add unnecessary ones.

"They wouldn't be that heartless," Clara said, before muttering to herself, "But who knows."

As she continued drinking, Clara realized that the wine Cynthia brought had a real kick. By the time she noticed, the muscular hunks in front of her had doubled due to her blurred vision.

It was fine. A small matter. She could still control herself.

Clara pretended she wasn't drunk, propping up her chin. She watched the boy with the bells and beast ears walk toward her, offering her his tie.

No one could tell this beautiful Eastern lady was intoxicated. It was just that the crimson at the corners of her eyes was deeper, and a misty haze filled her gaze. She looked like a flower about to bloom.

Clara wasn't as shy as before. Her courage grew; at first, she just played with his tie, winding it around her fingertips. Her movements were slow and teasing.

Then, at a sudden moment, she gave it a sharp tug.

The boy stumbled. Just as he was pulled toward her, he was suddenly pushed away by a large hand!

Clara was instantly enveloped by a tall shadow. The images before her blurred for a moment, and the lights around her began to spin. A familiar voice was saying something, but she couldn't hear clearly.

By the time she came to her senses, the noisy music had vanished. It seemed she was far from the bar hall.

But there was still a tie in her hand.

Clara instinctively wound the tie around her fingers and yanked the person toward her. Immediately, she was surrounded by the scent of cold spruce. The shadow in front of her grew heavier.

Clara looked up, her misty eyes meeting a pair of deep, soulful ones.

But the person in front of her wasn't as obedient as the one before. After only a moment of eye contact, he tried to look away and pull the tie from her hand.

Clara’s "spoiled lady" temper flared. She tightened her grip and pulled hard.

Quentin leaned forward, forced within inches of her. They were so close that the scent of rose and cocoa on her was intoxicating. His tie was hooked by her finger, creating a pulling sensation like a cat’s claw.

Quentin propped his hand against the leather sofa behind Clara, watching as she studied him. A pale pink flush spread from the corners of her eyes—she looked like a pink rose that could produce water with a single squeeze.

After studying him for a while, she looked confused. "Why do you look a bit like my brother?"

Clara muttered softly to herself, "Cynthia is so bold, finding a model who looks like my big brother."

It was the first time Quentin had ever been called a "model."

He looked down at her from a close distance, his gaze tracing her slightly parted lips. They were tinged with a deep crimson that seemed to rub off onto the corners of his own eyes.

She continued to study him and spoke again. "They don't really wear shirts when they dance. Why are you wearing so much?"

Clara began to give orders. "Take it off."

Quentin took a deep breath, his voice low and slow. "Fine."

His slender fingers moved to his collar. He unbuttoned his jacket, revealing his broad shoulders and back as he actually took the jacket off. Then, he draped it over her largely exposed back.

Finally, he had her covered up.

Clara’s gaze moved away from the shoulders and arms that seemed to block out the ceiling. Having someone serve her and put clothes on her gave her a sense of being completely wrapped up.

Her fingers listlessly slid from his collar down to his abdomen. Her fingertips traced a circle as she gave her evaluation: "It is a bit cold. You're actually quite good at serving people. How long have you been doing this?"

Clara didn't wait for an answer. Her fingertips suddenly hooked into the black leather harness Quentin used to keep his shirt in place. "Why do you like wearing these things too? Just like my big brother."

She knew Quentin wore them because he had to keep his attire impeccable for any occasion. But seeing them strapped across chest and abdominal muscles... it looked so... erotic.

Quentin’s muscles tensed under her wandering fingers. He caught her hand to stop her. "Are you still cold?"

Clara’s wrist felt itchy under his rough fingertips. She sniffled. "A little."

"Then let’s go back to sleep."

Clara was stunned for a moment, then frowned and pushed him away in dissatisfaction. "What? Why do you want to sleep after just a few words?"

"Who wants to sleep with you? You rogue. You pervert."

Quentin let her scold him; after all, she wasn't wrong.

"I'm not playing with you anymore. I'm going to find my brothers."

Her brothers were better; they wouldn't have such crooked, unspeakable thoughts about her.

Clara stood up to leave. Quentin was pushed back a couple of steps, watching her slight figure walk away.

The night breeze of the island brushed over the waves, moved through the coconut grove, and then passed by her.

Clara walked quietly by herself for a while. After an unknown amount of time, her chaotic thoughts came to a halt. The tip of her nose turned red. She realized she didn't know where to go.

And alcohol couldn't drown her sorrows at all. It only served to constantly remind her exactly why she was in pain.

Clara let out a long sigh, her head spinning.

Quentin caught her. He leaned down, picked her up, and carried her back to the overwater villa.

Clara curled into the man’s arms with her eyes closed. Much later, she murmured, "Quentin..."

"Can you always be my brother?"

Quentin’s footsteps faltered slightly. He looked at the person in his arms, unsure if she was sober or intoxicated.

A faint voice vanished into the sea breeze.

"No."