Xu Haohao watched with a cold sneer, her lips full of mockery.
All this for a damn painting, ha.
The sourness in her heart was completely out of control; she figured she really couldn't even compare to that stupid painting.
Xu Haohao's expression turned extremely strange; she snorted coldly and asked, "Who's the woman in this painting?"
It was an ancient painting. The woman in it wore a bright winter dress, the hem lined with snowy white fur, looking extremely warm. She stood beneath red plum blossoms in the snow, beautiful beyond words. Of course, since it was an old painting, Xu Haohao couldn't tell who the woman was supposed to resemble.
Feng Huaimu did not look like some art fanatic at all; this painting definitely had some deeper meaning—probably the kind of meaning she really didn't want to hear.
Feng Huaimu clearly didn't want to tell her. He lowered his head, wrapping up his own wounds, his painful breathing impossible to hide.
Ha, serves him right.
