At this moment.
The Imperial Garden Hotel.
Box 888.
Quiana Sutton, who had been resting with her eyes closed, heard the door open and slowly opened her eyes, looking up at the figure approaching.
Not a single embellishment on his entire body, just a piece of enamel at the cuff, yet a simple white shirt and black trousers carried a breathtaking elegance like flowing water.
A man as refined as jade, a gentleman unmatched in this world—these words seemed tailor-made for him.
She lightly called out, "Uncle."
Simon Storm sat across from her, casually resting his right hand on the armrest, looking her up and down.
After a moment, the corners of his lips curved into a slight smile.
"You've grown quite a bit."
For once, the expression on her face softened a bit: "After all, it's been three years since we last met."
In these three years, her uncle had looked for her, but she didn't want to see him. Her uncle was the only tenderness in her heart, and she didn't want it to be destroyed because of her.
Simon Storm looked at her face, which was somewhat softer than usual, without the usual gloom; indeed, she didn't seem like someone who was ill.
But remembering what Ian Donovan had told him, he couldn't help but worry.
He had regretted more than once that when her father and brother died, he should have forcibly taken her to the Storm family instead of leaving her alone in that hellish Sutton Estate.
"Did you... go to Ian Donovan for medicine again?"
Quiana Sutton glanced at Simon Storm, seemingly a bit displeased: "Why does this gossip tell you everything?"
Simon Storm knew what she was angry about and spoke softly: "I forced it out of him; don't blame him."
Quiana Sutton muttered quietly, "That's still being nosy, doesn't even know how to protect a patient's privacy."
Simon Storm looked at her helplessly, his eyes showing a hint of affection, and he didn't continue with the topic but ordered some of her favorite dishes.
She proposed having a drink, and he never refused any of her requests, so he ordered a glass of low-alcohol champagne.
Quiana Sutton felt the champagne was too mild, lacking the intensity of vodka, but she didn't show any sign of it in front of her uncle.
Simon Storm knew she liked to drink, but he hadn't expected her to like it so much; she slowly finished the whole bottle of champagne without eating a bite of the dishes in front of her.
He personally put some food in front of her: "Eat a bit more, drinking too much is bad for your health."
Her very soul was broken; would she even care if her body was healthy?
She had always remained calm and composed when drinking, never allowing herself to get drunk.
Unexpectedly, in front of her uncle, she gradually felt the effects of the alcohol, bringing out the darkness suppressed deep within her soul, which she struggled to control.
She looked at Simon Storm, her eyes filled with redness:
"Uncle, if I was the one who died back then, would everyone be happy?"
Hearing this, Simon Storm's face involuntarily covered with a layer of frost: "You're drunk."
Simon Storm moved to sit beside her, asked the waiter for a cup of sobering tea—although not immediately effective, it was better than nothing.
"They used their own lives to save you. They were willing to do this for you. None of this is your fault."
Ha.
Quiana Sutton didn't argue, just let out a self-mocking laugh.
The sound wasn't so much a sigh as it was a stone pressing on Simon Storm's heart.
When he first saw her five years ago, she seemed like a different person, like a beast sweeping through the world, leaving only the instinct to tear, making people's hearts cold with fear.
He always thought that under Ian Donovan's treatment, she had gradually returned to normal, but now he couldn't be sure.
Beneath her hidden mask, she hid endless secrets that no one could decipher.
At this moment, Simon Storm's assistant came in to report.
It was the first time the assistant had seen his master treat someone with such patience and gentleness, which made him a bit stunned.
Being interrupted abruptly, Simon Storm was somewhat displeased, his eyes darkening like the night with a hint of chill:
"What is it?"
The assistant snapped out of his daze and answered hurriedly, "Master, there seems to be unrest at the border. The family head has sent you to handle it as soon as possible."
"This small matter requires me to go personally?"
After speaking, he glanced at Quiana Sutton, who was lying on the side, squinted his eyes, and wondered if the old man knew he came to see her and deliberately found something for him to do?
The assistant lowered his head very low.
It was clear he was just cannon fodder; he didn't dare to speak recklessly at this moment.
Simon Storm tucked the loose hair from her forehead behind her ear, speaking with good patience: "Cece, I have some matters to attend to first. I'll leave a driver for you; they'll take you back later."
Quiana Sutton had sobered up a bit; she waved her hand: "No need to leave a driver for me; I've sobered up and can drive myself back."
Simon Storm was very concerned about her, so even if she was unwilling, he still left a driver for her.
After Simon Storm left, Quiana Sutton ordered herself a few bottles of strong liquor.
After drinking a few bottles, she found herself becoming even more sober—it wasn't the alcohol intoxicating people, but the people intoxicating themselves.
-
When she returned to Imperial View Manor, reeking of alcohol, Durrell Landon frowned instinctively upon seeing it.
"You've been drinking?"
Quiana Sutton sat on the sofa, lazily responding: "No."
The smell of alcohol was so strong and pungent, yet she claimed she hadn't drunk? How could she brazenly say that?
He didn't mind her drinking, but being dead drunk made him a bit uncomfortable.
Just as he was about to speak, Quiana Sutton laughed with a "pfft," "Let me guess, you want to tell me that next time if I'm drunk, I'll be banned from entering the gates of Imperial View Manor, right?"
Durrell Landon's frown deepened.
Durrell Landon had a cleanliness obsession, hated the smell of smoke, the smell of alcohol, and all stimulating smells, including food.
He set rules for his life, even standards for the people and food he liked.
Quiana Sutton didn't care what expression his face turned at that moment, let herself comfortably slouch on the sofa, almost lying down, pressed her temples, and with a half-smile, looked at Durrell Landon not far away:
"Master Durrell, sometimes I'm really curious, did you set your standards for liking Evelyn Windsor, or is it just because Evelyn Windsor met your standards that you liked her? Or if other women met your standards, would you like them too?"
Durrell Landon's expression briefly froze, but the next second, he suddenly walked over to sit beside her, lifted her chin with his fingers, his gaze thick and dreamy, his voice low and hoarse, "Can I take this question as you being jealous?"