Chapter 170: Chapter 170- Scumbag
It was Karl’s first kiss.
He had expected himself to be awkward and clumsy, yet everything unfolded more smoothly than he could have imagined.
He remembered reading somewhere that instinct was a man’s greatest teacher in matters of intimacy.
Now he understood—the taste of kissing the woman he liked was... intoxicating.
His entire body felt aflame, blood rushing to one place, straining and swelling with unbearable intensity. He kissed her with such heat, yet the woman beneath him only stirred slightly at first, pushing him away with sleepy resistance, before succumbing to the deep intoxication of her wine-dulled senses.
Karl sat up at the edge of the sofa, letting out a slow breath to steady himself.
Looking at her soft, slumbering figure, he curved his lips into a smile, a mixture of regret and relief flickering through him.
Regret, because he hadn’t kissed her while she was fully awake. Relief, because in her drunken state, she would be none the wiser to his boldness. Had she been sober, she would surely brand him a shameless rogue.
As the heat in his body gradually subsided, he finally rose, bending down to lift her into his arms. Her long hair cascaded over his arm like a silken waterfall.
Beautiful as jade, hair like a flowing river...
The thought struck him immediately, igniting a fresh wave of warmth throughout his body.
He let out a heavy sigh and carried her to the bedroom, gently laying her on the bed. Pulling the blanket over her, he made sure she was comfortable.
Turning to tidy up the remnants of the dinner in the living room, he almost left, but the sight of her still-sleeping face drew him back. He bent down and pressed his lips to hers once more. After all, he had already stolen a kiss—what was one more?
This time, however, the subtle rise and push of her hands betrayed her instincts. She pushed him away, rolling onto her side to continue sleeping, her loose loungewear slipping slightly, revealing the soft curve of her bare shoulder.
Karl knew better than to tempt fate further—he feared he might lose all control.
He finished cleaning up and was about to leave when the phone in the living room rang.
Curious, he checked it. The caller ID read: "Scumbag"
Karl hesitated—he hadn’t intended to answer her phone, as it felt like an intrusion. But something made him pause. Slowly, he picked it up, his voice calm and collected,
"Hello—"
The person on the other end of the line was silent for a long moment after hearing Karl’s voice, then finally asked,
"Is this Marylin’s phone?"
"Yes," Karl replied, calm and measured.
Before the caller could say another word, he added,
"She’s had too much to drink tonight and has already gone to sleep. If it’s not urgent, perhaps you can call her tomorrow. We’re resting now."
Every word Karl said carried weight, thick with unspoken meaning. It was late at night, a man answering her phone, telling them she was drunk and asleep... and that we are resting now. The implications were unmistakably intimate.
As expected, the caller didn’t say another word and hung up.
Karl’s fingers moved subtly, deleting the call log before placing her phone back exactly where he found it. Then he turned and left, leaving only the faintest trace of his presence behind.
The next morning, Marylin woke late, her head pounding from the hangover. Her last memory was sending Laurent and Vivian off; everything after that was a blur. She had no idea how she had gotten back to bed. Her hand ran through her long hair as a sudden thought struck her: Karl, from the apartment across the hall.
Had he... carried her to bed? The thought made her head ache even more. She hadn’t even figured out how to deal with the fact that he now lived directly across from her, and now this happened too.
Rubbing her temples, she got out of bed, intending to tidy up the mess from last night—the living room, the kitchen, the remnants of the hotpot. But when she entered the rooms, she found them immaculate. Every trace of last night’s chaos had been erased. The dishes were clean, the kitchen spotless, and the living room looked untouched, as if no party had ever occurred.
Her brows furrowed. Someone had cleaned up for her.
Her mind immediately went to one person: Karl.
Marylin didn’t know how to feel. She had always treated him as an awkward, green boy, inexperienced and clumsy. And yet, he had this quiet competence, this innate care for her that she hadn’t seen coming.
It was infuriating—and undeniably... impressive.
Marylin poured herself a glass of plain water and drank it down, feeling her stomach ease a little. She turned toward the sofa and picked up her phone. A few days ago, he had called her once, suggesting they meet for dinner, which she had refused.
Now, she scrolled through the call log and found his number. She didn’t save it before, thinking he was inconsequential, but tonight she wanted to call—not for anything more than to say thanks. After all, he had stayed up late cleaning up the mess from last night.
The call connected quickly, and his voice, carrying a faint smile, came through:
"Marylin, is there something you need?"
Her body stiffened at the sound of her name. Since when were they so familiar that he could call her by name, just like Laurent and the others?
Shaking off the awkwardness, she focused on why she called.
"Thank you for last night..."
A low chuckle came from his end.
"If you really want to thank me, why not do me a favor too?"
Marylin’s eyebrows knitted. A favor? Wasn’t she only calling to thank him? If she refused, would that mean her thanks weren’t genuine?
She pinched the bridge of her nose. She had always thought of him as just an ordinary, awkward boy, yet here he was, full of schemes and strategies—enough to make someone who had been navigating the adult world for years pause.
He interpreted her silence as agreement and continued earnestly:
"This weekend, our school is holding a dance. Would you do me the honor of being my partner?"
Marylin froze.
He came from an influential family in Burg Eltz; surely he knew plenty of high-society young ladies. Why would he specifically need her as his dance partner? She didn’t want to go, didn’t want to get tangled in any more of his schemes, and wanted to refuse outright. Yet, she recalled his earlier words—if she declined, wouldn’t that make her gratitude feel hollow?
"I’m... sorry. I can’t help you with that this weekend—" she started, wracking her brain for a plausible excuse.
But he cut her off, his tone teasing yet sharp:
"So, your so-called thanks was just words?"
Marylin was left speechless.
After this encounter, she realized just how cunning he really was. The charming exterior? Only a mask. Underneath, he was a wolf in sheep’s clothing.
In the end, she found herself agreeing to be his partner at the dance. She told herself it wasn’t a big deal—she didn’t have a job yet, and she had time. She would go. She would be careful. She wouldn’t let him get the upper hand again.