Her tone was both soft and pitiful, and hearing her say his name—Preston Keaton—actually didn't feel bad at all.
It was like a lover's soft whisper, carrying a unique sort of poignant intimacy.
Few people dared to use his given name, which made it feel novel.
The young woman on the other end seemed to realize what she had just said. Her breathing hitched. A moment ago, she had been incredibly upset, but now she was frightened into silence. Preston Keaton could even picture her: head hanging low, eyes rimmed with red, too afraid to speak.
He deliberately let his voice turn cold. "Why the silence? Weren't you being quite brazen when you used my name just now?"
Evelyn Grant trembled and lowered her head in silence.
'Her anger had gotten the best of her, and the name just slipped out.'
The man's tone was flat. "Speak."
"I..." Evelyn Grant sniffled, her voice barely a whisper. "I wasn't being brazen."
