Henry Hughes stopped speaking.
Maeve Lane's expression was very calm, as if this was an everyday occurrence.
But didn't she like Julian Fairchild?
He couldn't keep his thoughts to himself, so he asked what had been on his mind.
"I do like him." Maeve was very honest, but also very clear-minded—
"But not that much."
Henry listened to Maeve's calm words, and suddenly felt a pang of disappointment for Julian Fairchild.
It turned out that he had been mistaken all along.
In this chase called "like," Maeve had always been the most clear-headed one.
Or perhaps, it wasn't just about emotions.
She was a cold-hearted and unemotional person.
Like a captivating siren, watching coldly as all those who admired her went mad with longing.
Meanwhile, she overlooked this bizarre world, her gaze tinged with mild pity.
...
The phone lay quietly on the library desk.
A handsome man had a computer in front of him, displaying a dazzling array of content.
Five minutes later.
