She wanted to tell herself that all of this was fake.
But...
Maxwell Peary's voice, she wouldn't mistake it.
Such a cold one that rolled through, how could she convince herself that all of this was a misunderstanding?
Sorrow filled her heart, and she just sat on the sofa crying.
Frederick Goldsmith looked troubled. Madam had eaten little at noon, insisting on waiting for Young Master to return for dinner, and she must be very weak at this time.
He offered a tissue to Nia Mitchell.
"Madam, it must be a misunderstanding. Don't overthink it. Maybe call Young Master first or eat something; otherwise, you'll feel unwell."
Nia Mitchell ignored the butler's advice, shook her head, and said nothing.
As time ticked away, Nia Mitchell gradually fell asleep on the sofa in that position.
Seeing this, the butler sighed, turned to fetch a blanket, and walked over.
Gently placing the blanket over her, he felt particularly tender as he saw her furrowed brows.
