Fated love: the unwanted bride

“Mr. Seasons, all I have at home is tea, I don’t know if you like it or not,” she said.

Haynes made no fuss, he chuckled, “I love tea.”

Jasmine had a good impression of Haynes; he was an urbane, gentle man with a good temper and character.

Also, he was deeply devoted.

“You look a bit pale,” Haynes observed.

Jasmine touched her cheek and laughed, “Really? It might be because of the cold weather.”

“Are you living alone?”

“My friend has gone abroad. I haven’t been able to reach her for a long time.” There was a sense of loss in her voice.

She missed Peyenne so much.

Joe Heath told her that Lincoln Lamar was taking care of Peyenne Jones in Swatzerland, so she shouldn’t worry.

But why hadn’t Peyenne called her even after all this time?

She really missed her. Really, really missed her.

Without Peyenne at home, she was incredibly bored.

She especially missed the carefree, joyful Peyenne.

Haynes Seasons took a sip of tea, looking around Jasmine’s small house.

Everything was neatly organized, giving a homey feel, even the walls were covered in clean, pretty floral wallpaper.

The air was filled with a light, elegant fragrance.

Haynes could tell, Jasmine was a girl who genuinely loved life.

Her thinking was simple, with no complicated thoughts.

And girls like her were also the easiest to hurt.

“Miss Yale, your life has just begun after forgetting the past, you need to keep moving forward. Both the thorns and flowers on the road ahead are worth pursuing,” Haynes Seasons said, his voice was soothing and gentle.

“Mr. Seasons is a great comforter.”

Jasmine really liked him, as a person.

Being friends with him was quite relaxing.

“It’s not comforting, it’s just the truth,” Haynes chuckled, “You will meet someone who was meant for you, and life will get better too. Trust me, one day you will find happiness.”

Jasmine had to admit, she had been comforted by Haynes.

He was like a mentor, giving her guidance and hope.

“Mr. Seasons, have you had dinner?”

“I have,” Haynes said, “Since you’ve made your decision, shall we begin?”

He glanced at his watch, it was past seven.

“Alright.”

The wind had picked up outside, stirring the fog to dance and swirl.

The view outside the window was damp and white.

A thin layer of fog had formed on the glass, gradually condensing into rivulets that trickled down.

On the streets, a sleek, black Rolls-Royce barrelled forward at high speed.

In the passenger seat, his carefully chosen gift for her—a delicate music box.

He’d left the airport at six and had driven straight to her house.

He wanted to surprise her.

The fog grew denser, the Rolls-Royce windows misted over.

There were few people or cars on the road, and Sylvan Cheney went fast.

For no apparent reason, a strange feeling thrummed in his heart as his eyelids twitched non-stop.

Sylvan Cheney pushed down his feeling of unease and, waiting at a traffic light, lit up a cigarette.

The nicotine could effectively numb his nerves.

Shrouded in darkness, his face was stern and aristocratic, eyeballs shimmering intensely beneath the hint of an inscrutable depth.

The smoke wrapped around Sylvan Cheney’s body, drifting apart slowly.

The Rolls-Royce rushed through the fog like a swift.

The car took a turn, entering the residential area where Jasmine Yale lived.