The airport expressway was a fair distance from the city center. Jonathan sat in the back of the executive car.
The driver had the accelerator pressed nearly to the floor.
The trip abroad had been scheduled long in advance, and they were almost at the airport when Jonathan received a call and ordered the driver to turn back around.
Unsure of what had happened, the driver didn’t dare ask. He could only steal glances in the rearview mirror, judging from Jonathan's thunderous expression that whatever it was, it was serious.
Night had fallen, and the streetlights began to glow outside the car window. The shifting colors played across Jonathan's face, making his handsome, sculpted features appear exceptionally cold.
His lips were pressed into a thin line, his knuckles white as he gripped his phone.
His eyes were locked on the screen.
He watched as Quennel stood beside Stephanie, shielding her from the verbal attacks.
On the screen, they were in coordinated outfits, looking every bit the perfect couple.
A layer of frost seemed to form in Jonathan’s deep, narrow eyes.
…
The grand hotel ballroom fell silent. It was a Yates family drama, and while the guests were eager for the spectacle, no one dared to intervene.
Everyone was surprised to see Quennel defending Stephanie. Weren’t they broken up? What was going on?
Victoria’s face was ashen.
She couldn’t understand how things had gone so wrong. She had jumped off a balcony. Shouldn’t everyone be condemning Stephanie, the supposed aggressor?
How had her desperate act somehow brought the two of them back together, giving Quennel the perfect opportunity to play the hero?
And what about her? Had anyone even noticed she was still dripping wet? Apparently not. No one had even offered her a blanket.
Quennel’s face was a mask of cold fury. “Mr. Yates, you haven’t raised Stephanie for a single day. What right do you have to speak to her that way?”
Arnold retorted, “The right I earned when I married her mother.”
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