He mustn't scare her again; he needed to ease up.
Even after entering the house and closing the door, Laura Jones hadn't recovered from the strange atmosphere earlier.
In her mind, his question kept repeating—
Laura, do you think there's something wrong with me?
Do you think I'm not good?
Am I not good?
…
Remembering his tone when he asked her this question, a subtle trace of humility lingered, and Laura's heart clenched slightly, with a hint of pain.
Of course, he's good; how could he not be?
It's precisely because he's so good that she didn't dare to dream about it.
Laura pressed her lips together, and her gaze inadvertently grew dim.
She casually tidied up, returned to her room, and lay on her bed. In front of her were the autographed photos of William Wilson and Sophie Greenwood, placed high on her bookshelf.
Initially, for her small bit of CP fascination, she put these two photos together, smiling like a fool.
