My Landlord's Midnight Lips - Chapter 8: Chapter 8

I sighed wistfully, clinging to the moment like it was the last thread of a perfect dream.
Beside me, Daniel's soft snores filled the room, rhythmic and steady.
Before long, exhaustion pulled me under, and I drifted into sleep.
By six in the evening, a gentle nudge from Daniel roused me. "Dinner time, sweetheart," he murmured.
I blinked sleep from my eyes, squinting at him. "Since when do you cook?"
He pinched my nose playfully. "I don't. Vincent brought food over. He invited me for a drink. Come on, let's eat."
At that, I shot upright.
What was the landlord scheming now?
Daniel barely exchanged two words with the man outside of rent day.
I eyed my husband skeptically. "You two never talk. Why's he suddenly inviting you for drinks?"
Before Daniel could answer, the door swung open.
There stood Vincent, flashing that too-charming, too-innocent smile.
"Now, Sophia," he crooned, dripping with exaggerated warmth. "No need to sound so suspicious. Makes a guy feel like he's got something to hide."
"My relatives sent over fresh hairy crabs. Ran into Daniel at the store, had a nice chat, and thought, why not share? Drinking alone's no fun."
"Vincent," Daniel cut in, "Sophia didn't mean anything by it. She was just asking."
I knew better. Vincent was up to something—I'd bet my last dollar on it.
But I couldn't exactly say that to Daniel.
With a dismissive flick of my wrist, I followed them to the dining area.
The table was a feast—steaming hairy crabs, an array of side dishes, and two bottles of Maotai.
Daniel picked one up, eyebrows shooting up. "This is too much, Vincent."
Vincent waved him off. "Nonsense. Good liquor's meant to be shared. Besides, do I look like a cheapskate?"
Their conversation flowed like the drinks—easy, familiar.
One shot in, and they were thick as thieves.
Vincent threw me a wink. "Eat up, Sophia. Don't just sit there listening to us blabber."
Daniel kept piling food onto my plate, oblivious.
Suspicious, I only touched what they'd already tried.
The night dragged on.
Daniel's words grew sluggish, his movements heavy, while Vincent stayed sharp—his tolerance unsettling.
Then it hit me.
Was he trying to get Daniel drunk to make a move on me?
Panic flared. I tried to stop Daniel from drinking more.
He shoved me away, irritation slurring his words. "Ugh, woman! Let me enjoy my drink with Vincent. If you're tired, go to bed."
"Hey now," Vincent chided, feigning concern. "That's no way to talk to your wife. She cares about you. Apologize."
"Women shouldn't be spoiled," Daniel muttered. "Stay out of it, Vincent. Let's drink."
Even knowing it was just the liquor talking, I wanted to slap him.
Here he was, buddying up with a man who clearly had eyes for his wife.
"Alright, alright," Vincent said, standing. "It's late. Let's call it a night. And show your wife some respect."
With a pat on Daniel's shoulder, he left.
I was stunned.
Daniel had been seconds from passing out. And Vincent just… walked away?
Had he really missed his chance to play the villain?
In the days that followed, Vincent made no moves.
Strangely, he kept inviting Daniel for drinks—even showing up at midnight after his shifts.
Something else was brewing. I could feel it.
Worse, Daniel suddenly refused to discuss moving out.
Frustrated, I argued with him.
Then, the next morning, he dropped a bombshell.