Once, she had been a naive young girl. Now, Emily Blair carried herself with calm self-assurance. She was tall, striking in a crimson dress and heels, her makeup immaculate. The golden light seemed to single her out as she entered, bathing her in a warm glow, as if she stood beneath her very own spotlight—impossible to ignore.
Emily Blair had grown up.
And she had done so in places Andrew Lane could neither reach nor see—growing up all on her own, and, by all appearances, doing just fine.
Andrew said this to himself, quietly.
After a moment adjusting to the brightness, Emily lifted her gaze toward him.
Her eyes, once full of youthful hope, were now colder and more mature, sharpened by experience. The sunlight painted his face in soft gold, but his expression remained controlled and distant, lips pressed in a composed line as he regarded her with steady restraint.
Emily’s breath caught for a moment before she managed to recover her composure.
“Mr. Lane. It’s been a long time.”
Years had passed. Whatever familiarity had once existed between them was gone; they hardly resembled the people they’d once been.
Andrew’s eyes lowered slightly. His voice, deeper and more unreadable than before, broke the silence: “Please, have a seat.”
Emily nodded, took the chair opposite him, and set her handbag on the seat beside her.
Hardly had she sat down when Andrew’s assistant hurried over and poured her a cup of tea.
Emily gave a brief nod, accepted the cup, and took a delicate sip, her face calm and unreadable.
The assistant hesitated, hand lingering awkwardly in midair.
Not so long ago, he would never have poured a drink for Emily Blair unless Mr. Lane explicitly asked him to. Even if Emily herself had requested it, he would have refused.
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