Every word he slowly uttered seemed to be carrying thorns.
Questioning, criticism.
Facing his remark, her face gradually stiffened, and Charlotte Chester appeared even more uneasy.
Of course, Camilia Davis was also uneasy.
She was in her forties, and a miscarriage in her youth had left her with chronic health issues. Over the years, her hard work and difficulties made her age quickly, and now, plagued with illness, she was bone-thin, her eyes sunken, looking aged and pitiful.
Especially—
She had never set foot in such a dignified and wealthy living room, nor seen such a group of people who seemed born with an air of nobility and authority.
She was like a humble ant, wringing her hands while sitting on the dark brown sofa. Though the sofa was soft and spacious, extremely comfortable, she could not sit steadily, as if there was fire beneath her, roasting her whole body with torment.
Yet she did not dare move, nor speak.
