Evelyn Grant's eyelashes trembled under Preston Keaton's gaze. A suffocating tightness spread from her chest to her limbs. Her hands clutched the hem of her clothes, her heartbeat in disarray.
She was prey about to walk into the wolf's den, with no other choice.
Preston Keaton rarely waited for anyone so patiently. His index finger tapped lightly on the page of his book. He sat a short distance away, looking relaxed and languid. Knowing she had no way out, he leisurely observed the young woman's predicament, the corners of his lips curling into a faint smile, as if sizing up a lamb for the slaughter.
'What else could I do?'
'I was already in the palm of his hand.'
Evelyn Grant took shuffling steps toward the wide bed, fighting back a tremor. The intense pressure brought a faint redness to her eyes.
Feeling aggrieved and heartbroken, she lifted a corner of the covers, her gaze downcast, and quickly slid underneath.
