Vivian Yates furrowed her brows, her gaze deep and dark as she stared at Leona Grant.
He wore a perfectly ironed, handmade Italian suit, his figure tall and straight.
From her angle, she had a perfect view of Leona Grant's face.
He pursed his lips, his gaze lingering fondly on the spot where Annabelle Linton had disappeared. His cold features were chiseled and deep. Bathed in the sunlight, he seemed to radiate a noble aura, looking even more perfect, handsome, and regal than usual—so handsome he seemed unreal, like a figure in a painting.
This was the man she had loved for over twenty years, yet he had ended up as Annabelle Linton's husband and had fallen in love with her.
'I hate this! I won't accept it!'
'But what's the use?'
Vivian Yates gazed obsessively at Leona Grant, a sinister glint flashing in her eyes. But then she remembered the words of the person she was collaborating with over the phone, and her fists clenched.
