The Third Auntie was probably in her thirties, but her appearance was well-maintained, looking as if she were just in her early twenties.
She wore a light purple gown that hugged her curvaceous figure, her delicate and fair neck exposed, evoking endless imagination in those who looked upon her.
"Third Auntie, what gives you the right to treat me this way?" The Nineteenth Aunt was being dragged out by two maids, held firmly in their grip. She struggled desperately, shouting in frustration.
Back when her son was alive, in the Prime Minister's Mansion, no one ever dared to disrespect her. Now, her son's body wasn't even cold yet, and she—the boy's own mother—was suffering such affronts. Even the Third Aunt, who usually wouldn't dare make a peep, now had the audacity to act this way. It was only natural for the Nineteenth Aunt to be enraged.
