Because I saw a small reflection of myself in his deep, black eyes, it felt as though even his eyelashes were trembling slightly. I secretly inhaled, gathered my courage, and reached out to gently hold his hands, which were resting on the blanket.

“Mr. Andre, hello. I’m Frida.”

When I grasped his slender, delicate hands, I almost heard the collective gasp of those around us. My nervousness, however, made it hard to pay attention to anything else. Instead, I instinctively tightened my grip on his hands. Andre didn’t pull away. His fingers were long and strong, and I couldn’t hold his hands for long. Just as I was about to lose my breath from nervousness, Andre suddenly gripped my cold fingers. His large hand completely enveloped mine and held it tightly.

“Frida, push me to my room. Be careful.”

I quickly stood up, but wobbled and almost lost my balance. At just the right moment, Andre reached out and steadied me by the waist. His hand quickly released me, but my cheeks were still faintly burning. I murmured a quiet “mm,” took the wheelchair from the servant, and pushed him into the room.

Once the door was shut, the warm light flickered on. Andre looked at me for a moment, then gestured to his legs. The corner of his mouth seemed to twitch, almost as though he was smiling, though it felt more like a fleeting illusion.

“My legs are inconvenient, Frida. You’ll have to help me tonight.”

I lowered my head, not daring to meet his eyes, and nodded gently. A little embarrassed, I raised my hand to tug at my earlobe, but my fingers felt unusually hot.

Before Clint's impetuous gathering, he'd thrown a party. His fiancée, Rachel, didn't attend; it was just his group of friends. After a few rounds of drinks, everyone was starting to lose control. Out of nowhere, someone brought up the name “Frida.”

“Clint’s had so many girlfriends, but Frida is still the most beautiful.” “That’s true, we all agree.” “If Clint hadn’t warned us off, I’d probably try to woo her myself.” “You? Don’t get ahead of yourself, boy. Go to the back of the line!”

The conversation began to spiral out of control. At some point, Clint set down his drink. He leaned back on the couch, staring unblinkingly at the group. The talking gradually quieted down.

“By the way, Clint, we were just joking,” one of them said, trying to cover up. “We’ve had a little too much to drink. Don’t take it seriously.”

Clint chuckled lightly.

“Listening to you guys, I actually remembered Frida for a moment. Though, is she dead? There’s been no word from her for such a long time.”

His voice was cold, almost indifferent. It seemed like he had just remembered her, and if she were truly dead, it would hardly matter. But suddenly, the room grew completely silent. Clint’s assistant quickly spoke up, trying to smooth things over.

“Boss, it’s my fault. I forgot to tell you. A few days ago, Miss Frida asked me to deliver something to you. She said it was something very precious. I guess she probably wanted to reconcile. I said a few words to her, and she didn’t cause any trouble after that.”

Clint cast a cold, distant look at his assistant, even letting out a small chuckle.

“Look at you, Antolin. Your guts are getting bigger and bigger.”

The assistant flinched, standing up hurriedly.

“Boss Clint…”

“When did my affairs become your responsibility?”

“Right, right, it was my fault,” the assistant stammered, bowing repeatedly, drenched in sweat.

Clint lowered his gaze, habitually spinning the ring on his middle finger.

“Call her. Tell her to come here within thirty minutes.”

The assistant froze for a moment.

“Boss Clint?”

Clint turned his face, staring into the pitch-black night.

“If she can’t make it, then tomorrow, I’ll really be engaged to Rachel.”