It was late at night, which accounted for the surrounding silence.
That voice was incredibly clear.
Zhou Luchen's.
Shen Jing put down her coffee, threw on a coat, went downstairs, and opened the door. She looked up.
The villa's five-meter-long, French-carved gate had been completely opened by the security guards.
Several black Mercedes G-Class SUVs and an S-Class AMG, forming an executive motorcade, were parked in the large courtyard, both inside and outside the gate.
More than ten chauffeurs and bodyguards in suits and white gloves stood by the cars, escorting their president to Beverly Manor.
In the dead of night, running a fever of 104 degrees, the second young master Zhou sat on the steps before the fountain, cradling a bouquet of red roses.
They were the Red Naomi variety. His elegant, well-defined hands, holding them, appeared even fairer in contrast.
