"Get lost!"

Leona Grant shoved him away forcefully, poured another drink, and downed it. He slammed the glass on the table, his face a mask of irritation. "Just go crawl into a corner and leave me alone, got it?"

Xylas Shepherd felt a headache coming on. He looked over at Nathaniel Locke. "Do you think he’s lost his mind? He rarely drinks like this. What’s gotten into him? He drank himself sick last time in Nordmark. If he keeps this up, something terrible is going to happen!"

"Who knows?" Nathaniel Locke leaned back on the sofa, gazing dispassionately into his glass with an air of utter indifference. "Just let him throw his fit."

Seeing that Nathaniel Locke had no intention of getting involved, Xylas Shepherd felt completely helpless.

’One’s gone crazy, the other’s an idiot. Am I really the only handsome, clever, and charming man left in the entire world?’

’No! The pressure is immense!’

Leona Grant pounded one drink after another, his troubled eyes watching the crowd lost in their revelry. The bustling, surging sea of people, this world teeming with life, only made him feel a bone-deep chill.

In the neon-drenched, debaucherous bar, fashionable men and women partied wildly. He desperately tried to become one of them, to forget his troubles for just a moment, but found he couldn’t blend in at all.

The past flashed before his eyes, frame by frame, finally settling on the image of Annabelle Linton’s indifferent face...

For a few seconds, a look of obsession flickered across Leona Grant’s face, immediately followed by a harsh frown.

’Why am I thinking about that heartless, ungrateful woman again?!’

’Leona Grant, stop with the wishful thinking. She couldn’t give a damn about your pathetic, sincere heart, can’t you see?’

’There’s no place for you in her heart. She wouldn’t feel the slightest pang of sorrow if you dropped dead in front of her, so why are you debasing yourself like this?’

At the thought, Leona Grant slammed his glass down again and irritably lit a cigarette.

The colorful lights from above danced across his exquisitely sculpted features. A faint halo of light enveloped him, giving him an air of ultimate, unapproachable nobility.

At that moment, he was lounging on the sofa in a posture that was half-casual, half-decadent. Even though the dim lighting obscured his expression, his perfectly flawless features were still enough to leave one intoxicated.

Wisps of bluish-white smoke curled around him, the shifting haze obscuring his incomparably handsome profile.

Leona Grant took a placid drag from his cigarette.

Even a simple gesture, when performed by him, seemed to carry an innate, magnetic charm in every subtle shift of his expression.

The people around him were practically mesmerized.

As Leona Grant lay on the sofa, consumed by irritation, a face suddenly swam into his vision.

A woman was staring at him with captivated eyes. Her face bore a faint resemblance to Annabelle Linton.

’Anyone who resembled Annabelle Linton was guaranteed to be far from ugly.’

Leona Grant paused. A roguish smirk then played on his lips as he beckoned to her with a finger.

Overjoyed, the woman hurried over to him.

Leona Grant stared at her for a couple of seconds before his long fingers tilted her chin up. "What’s your name?"

"Ana...bella."

Leona Grant froze, a hopeful light entering his eyes.

His gaze hazy, he looked at the woman and murmured, "Annabelle? My wife, Annabelle Linton?"

He suddenly pulled the woman into a tight embrace, his voice a mix of excitement and aggrieved sorrow. "Annabelle Linton, you finally came to look after me, didn’t you? I knew it. I knew you wouldn’t really leave me all alone. Honey, my stomach hurts... Can we go home now?"

"No, Young Master Grant, you’ve got the wrong—"

"Annabelle, do you love me?" Before the woman could finish, Leona Grant cut her off, his eyes fixed on hers as he pleaded, "Tell me you love me. Even if you have to lie."