Linda leaned in, her eyes glinting with hope that was far too obvious.
"You’re not planning to leave again this ti, are you?"
Her expression said it all—she was fishing for Morrison.
Lilian only curved her lips into that sa bright smile.
"We’ll see."
It was a perfunctory answer, nothing more. In truth, she had already decided—once the banquet was over, she’d head straight for the airport and catch her flight back to the States.
There was work waiting for her, campaigns to shoot for Bert’s company, schedules packed so tightly she barely had ti to breathe.
In the past year, Bert’s brand had taken off. He poured everything into that small but ambitious company—every stitch of design, every sleepless night. With her as the face of each collection, their lines sold out season after season. Bert was making a fortune, and the world had started to take notice.
He had even won a prestigious designer’s award, the kind that turned heads overnight.
Busy—that was their reality now, both hers and his.
Linda could only sigh, still clutching Lilian’s hand.
"There’s nothing out there that compares to ho. Your parents aren’t getting any younger, you know. You should spend more ti by their side."
Lilian nodded sweetly.
"linda, why don’t you sit down and chat a bit? I’ll make you all so tea."
With that, she slipped away into the adjoining kitchen, leaving the elders to their talk.
From the doorway, she caught fragnts of Linda’s lant to her mother, Tiffany.
"Lilian’s such a good girl... it’s that brat Morrison who doesn’t deserve her—"
But Tiffany cut her off gently,
"Let the past be past. Co, look at the child instead."
Their voices drifted into idle talk about the baby’s looks and temperant, while Lilian watched the kettle steam, her gaze unconsciously dropping to her wrist.
That mont outside—Morrison’s grip, the force that had nearly bruised her—rose unbidden in her mind.
She let out a soft, bitter laugh.
How useless, his regret.
Thanks to him, she would never believe in love again.
By the ti the banquet was about to begin, Morrison finally caught sight of her again—walking out of the lounge beside her mother and Laurent, the picture of poise.
He had assud she would be seated among the younger crowd. He had even planned to swap seats, slide in quietly, find his chance to speak with her.
But no.
She sat with her parents and Laurent’s, and—worse—right beside old Mr. Washington himself, tending to the elderly man like a dutiful granddaughter.
Morrison felt his temples throb.
Had it been just the Washington and Laurent elders, he could have forced his way into that circle. But with the old master there?
Even he wasn’t reckless enough for that.
Old Mr. Washington was notorious for his fiery temper. Morrison still rembered the last ti he had encountered the old man at a charity gala. Out of courtesy, he had stepped forward to greet him—and got his arm slamd with the old man’s cane.
"You little brat! You’re the one who hurt my granddaughter?"
Morrison had no intention of repeating that embarrassnt, especially not in a setting like this, with half of BURG ELTZ’s elite gathered in one place.
Earlier, he had scanned the guest list carefully—Lilian’s na was nowhere to be found. Little did he know, Bert had deliberately blocked Dave from including her na, making it impossible for Morrison to locate her.
Even worse, Bert had arranged for Lilian to sit with the elders, deliberately placing her out of Morrison’s reach during the banquet.
Morrison was seated with Bert and a few other industry bigwigs. He could feel Bert’s smug gaze drilling into him, and he ground his teeth, shooting Bert a glare sharp enough to cut steel.
The banquet held no real interest for him, and he had no desire to be dragged around by Linda, being introduced to potential girlfriends. Karl, on the other hand, didn’t even sit down until the last few minutes before the event officially started. Until then, he had used the restroom as an excuse to escape Linda’s prying eyes, ignoring all her calls.
Karl was seated at a table with Laurent’s close friends—Vivian and her husband, Zoey, Leonardo, and Marylin. Lilian should have been at this table as well, but Bert had deliberately changed her seating.
The reasoning was simple: Karl was twenty-eight, roughly the sa age as Vivian, Zoey, and Laurent. Marylin was twenty-nine, slightly older, while Leonardo and Vivian’s husband were a couple of years older, but still within the sa peer group. The idea was to create common ground, so Karl wouldn’t feel awkward.
After all, Karl was from an academic research background, while most of the guests were from the business world. Seating him with businessn would have been painfully awkward. So after careful consideration, Laurent and Dave decided this table was the best fit.
For Karl, this table wasn’t awkward at all—after all, he knew Leonardo. Not well, of course, just enough to recognize the big star. Leonardo was now a household na in the entertainnt world; everyone knew him.
The rest of the guests? Karl had no idea who they were. A few days ago, when Morrison had gone to the U.S. to track Lilian, Karl had been forced to attend several etings, morizing the nas of several executives—but now he had forgotten them all.
Sitting here, he felt comfortable and quietly appreciated Laurent and Dave’s thoughtfulness.
He went around greeting everyone already seated, exchanging nas, and that was enough. Vivian, upon hearing he was Karl, imdiately pursed her lips and said,
"Morrison’s younger brother?"
Karl felt like he’d just been hit with a thousand-point insult. Vivian’s expression clearly revealed her disdain for Morrison—and by extension, for him. He could sense the judgntal eyes sizing him up, probably assuming he was just as much of a playboy as his brother.
Karl silently defended himself—he was a pure, innocent guy who had never truly dated anyone. The fake relationship with Lilian didn’t count.
He smiled politely at Vivian, deflecting the topic.
Karl had assud he was the last to be seated, but he quickly noticed soone else hadn’t arrived yet. The seat to his left was still empty.
Zoey glanced at the ti, frowned, and said to Vivian,
"Where’s Marylin? The banquet is about to start."
The won, as Laurent’s closest friends, had promised never to miss a significant event in each other’s lives. For Laurent’s son’s Baby Shower, neither Zoey nor Marylin would ever be absent.
They had agreed: for every major milestone in life, they would always be there for each other.
Whether it was their own weddings, the births of their children, or even the future weddings and children of those children, they had vowed to always appear at each milestone as a united circle of friends.
Vivian grew a little anxious and reached for her phone to call Marylin, but before she could dial, Zoey exclaid joyfully,
"No need! Marylin’s here!"
Karl followed their gaze and looked up—and for a mont, it felt like his very breath had been stolen.
There she was—a stunningly glamorous woman. She wore a flowing red dress, her hair in soft, center-parted waves. She carried a clutch with elegant poise and stepped gracefully in high heels.
Her beauty was not the kind that seed cheap or superficial. Instead, it radiated an innate elegance, like a gentle spring breeze brushing past.
Her aura ca from deep within. Physical beauty alone might be impressive, but without depth, it always felt hollow. Yet from her eyes, her posture, and the quiet confidence she exuded, Karl could sense a richness of knowledge and life experience, a woman whose inner world lent her elegance its true weight.
At that mont, Karl’s mind had only one thought: This is what a real woman is.
Before now, won had existed in his mind rely as mbers of the opposite sex. He had never felt desire, never longed for their presence.
But now, he could hear his heartbeat thundering in his chest like a drum, accompanied by rapid breathing, dry mouth, and flushed cheeks. It felt as though the next second might suffocate him.
Desire.
A raw, overwhelming surge of it flooded his chest. The desire to know her, to speak to her, to touch her, to kiss her, to be with her—he wanted it all, and the craving was almost painful in its intensity.
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