Even separated by a phone call, Maxwell Peary could feel his young wife's plummeting mood.
In Provence, within a splendid, star-rated Grand Hotel, a high-end banquet was currently taking place.
Sitting on a couch in the middle of the banquet, Maxwell Peary absently frowned. Crossing his legs, he held a phone in his right hand and gently swirled a glass of red wine in his left.
The noble aura he unintentionally exuded deterred people from approaching, making it seem that even getting close would be a desecration.
"What's the matter? You seem so down?"
The movement of Maxwell Peary's left hand, swirling the wine glass, halted. His expression flickered.
This slight change in Maxwell Peary's expression immediately set everyone at the banquet on edge.
Meanwhile, in Capital Town, upon hearing Maxwell Peary's words, Nia Mitchell felt far from elated. She continued walking, step by step.
