After Betrayal - I Married a Handsome Tycoon-Chapter 137: It’s So Good to Have You

Moira Sloan watched, a bit mesmerized.

Standing at her side, Flora Rhodes jabbed her waist a little harder. "He really is handsome."

Moira Sloan let out a soft, noncommittal laugh.

’Of course he was handsome.’

’If he weren’t genuinely handsome, she wouldn’t have chosen him in the first place.’

’Looking back, while she had been acting recklessly then, she couldn’t deny that being attracted to his looks had played a major role.’

"I refuse to believe you aren’t the least bit tempted," Flora Rhodes said.

Moira Sloan shot back, "You seem to have a lot of free time. Why are you so obsessed with my affairs? If you’re really that desperate for something to do, go find a factory and stitch shoe soles."

With that, Moira Sloan walked to the shop’s entrance and opened the door without sparing Connor Quinn a single glance.

It was as if they were complete strangers.

Flora Rhodes followed close behind her, tsking softly. "You really know how to keep your composure."

In response to Flora Rhodes’s teasing, Moira Sloan said nothing, simply walking inside with an air of composure in her high heels.

Although Moira Sloan and Flora Rhodes video-chatted every day, gossiping over video was nowhere near as satisfying as doing it face-to-face.

So, the moment they stepped into the shop, Flora Rhodes started dishing on the latest gossip in their circle.

She mentioned a certain big shot who had parachuted his daughter in to burnish her credentials.

She had no foundational skills, no artistic spark, and not even a proper apprenticeship.

But even so, the young heiress still won an award in the last newcomer competition.

Moira Sloan asked wryly, "First place?"

"Not quite," Flora Rhodes said. "They were probably afraid of getting exposed, so she took third."

Moira Sloan scoffed disdainfully. "And her piece?"

Flora Rhodes said, "I heard an old master made it for her."

Flora Rhodes didn’t say which master specifically.

Chances were, she didn’t know herself.

Moira Sloan asked, "An old master would do something like that?"

Flora Rhodes pursed her lips. "These days... humans die in pursuit of wealth, birds in pursuit of food. And on top of that, people resort to all sorts of despicable tactics..."

Flora Rhodes trailed off, but Moira Sloan knew exactly what she was implying.

’They say artists are noble.’

’But in reality, every profession has people whose hearts and hands are dirty.’

’You shouldn’t romanticize any profession.’

"Speaking of which," Flora Rhodes said, "that young heiress they shoved in has the same last name as you."

Moira Sloan’s lips curved into a smile. "Same name, different fates."

"Why even compare yourself to her?" Flora Rhodes said. "You have actual talent."

Moira Sloan teased lazily, "If you can lie down, who’d want to sit up?"

"That’s true," Flora Rhodes agreed.

A passionate hobby is one thing, but making a living is another.

The two should never be confused.

Only people who are financially secure, with no worries about the future, have the luxury of pursuing concepts like ’living your true self’ or ’true freedom.’ For someone who can’t even afford their next meal, what are they supposed to pursue? Jack shit.

Earning just enough to get by from a soul-crushing job, then lying in bed at midnight scrolling through some short-video app—that passes for entertainment.

Pursuing passions?

I can talk about passions with you all day, but who’s going to put food on my table tomorrow?

When Moira Sloan first entered the field, it was genuinely out of passion. But if she hadn’t managed to make a name for herself, to be honest, she probably would have quit long ago.

After all, a girl’s gotta eat.

She was just an ordinary person, and passion and the title of "artist" couldn’t pay the bills.

As the two were chatting, Moira Sloan’s phone vibrated. A message notification popped up on the screen.

Moira Sloan lowered her gaze. Upon seeing the message, the corner of her eye lifted slightly.

Connor Quinn: Did you have enough to eat for lunch?

Moira Sloan: ?

Connor Quinn: Cashew shrimp and custard buns. Want some?

Moira Sloan: Now?

Connor Quinn: Yeah.

Moira Sloan pursed her lips, her fingertip tapping lightly against the edge of her phone.

’Honestly, she hadn’t eaten her fill at lunch.’

’For one, she’d gotten a call from Lillian Kidd during lunch, and with something weighing on her mind, her appetite had suffered. For another, Connor Quinn had well and truly spoiled her palate, and she found ordinary food hard to swallow these days.’

After a moment of thought, Moira Sloan decided not to sell herself short: I want strawberry juice, too.

Connor Quinn: Okay.

Ten minutes later, Moira Sloan found an excuse to go over.

Ostensibly, she was going to see Caleb Lockwood.

Flora Rhodes gave her a meaningful look, her eyes full of... wild imaginings...

Ignoring her friend’s gaze, Moira Sloan tucked her hair back with slender fingers and stepped out, heading next door.

When Moira Sloan arrived at the tattoo shop, everyone was busy.

Only Connor Quinn was in the kitchen, juicing strawberries for her.

She had gotten familiar with the guys at the tattoo shop by now; for instance, the honest and somewhat shy one was Zachary Curran, and the one who looked quick-witted was named Philip...

She greeted them all naturally before heading into the kitchen.

As she entered, Connor Quinn was just pouring the strawberry juice into a glass. She leaned over to look, and where no one could see, her slender fingers slipped under the hem of his shirt to feel his chiseled abs. Her tone was serious, yet held a subtle, teasing note. "Boss Quinn..."