She paced back and forth in the kitchen, feeling an inexplicable unrest, her delicate brows almost knitted together.
After half an hour, she finally braced herself to go out; the man was still sitting there, but she didn't dare look at him again, sitting in the massage chair by the floor-to-ceiling window, her eyes glued to the window, her back a bit stiff.
The hall was unusually quiet; neither of them spoke a word, the atmosphere was both oppressive and awkward, Tracy almost couldn't sit still, turned around to look at the man on the sofa.
He kept his head down, reading the newspaper, his thin lips slightly curved, seemingly unaffected by what had just happened.
She let out a sigh of relief, her gaze fixated on the man.
In Tracy's impression, Lorraine Hanson was a playboy, and rumors about him frequently flooded the entertainment tabloids; Tracy detested philandering men the most.
