Shalma Hughes didn't turn around. She simply straightened her back, standing motionless before the elevator doors.
"Are you really going to marry him?" The words seemed forcibly squeezed from his throat, low and slightly hoarse.
"Sigh! I'm getting older. If I don't find someone to marry soon, I'll be an old maid. Don't you agree, Mr. Hawthorne?" Shalma cast a sidelong glance at the man, who seemed to be swallowed by the shadows. A smile traced her lips, yet it carried an icy chill.
His gaze locked onto their clasped hands. Finally, he let go. Retracting her hand, Shalma resolutely turned her head forward.
His husky voice sounded from behind her once more. "How are your injuries healing?"
