Twenty-year-old Serena Stanton wore her hair in a high ponytail, dressed in a plain cashmere coat, sitting properly across from Tobias Thorne.
Listening to him speak in the calmest tone, delivering the most ruthless, merciless words. Her knuckles clenched so tight they turned white, her face grew increasingly pale, yet she kept her gaze polite and aloof, not shedding a single tear.
Serena was mature in handling matters, rarely weeping. When faced with difficulty, her first instinct wasn't to cry, but to solve the problem.
But in that moment, she couldn't resolve the issue Tobias Thorne raised, and still she didn't cry. Because she knew perfectly well—if she couldn't fix it, crying was useless.
When the conversation ended, Serena rose, lost and dazed, saw something she couldn't fully grasp, then suddenly as if ignited by some spark, she rushed recklessly outward.
