He spoke with a natural tone.
"Oh."
She responded softly.
"What? You're not happy with it?"
He frowned, his gaze lingering on her face for a few seconds.
"Not at all," she suddenly smiled, "Aunty is pretty and has a good temperament, who wouldn't like her?"
But only she knew that the smile never reached her eyes.
Elara Joyce truly had no flaws.
She was stunning, with features as delicate as a magazine cover model, her manners were graceful and her speech was soft and gentle.
Mrs. Prescott liked her, and it was only natural.
Almost everyone in the Prescott Family liked her.
Except—
Vivian Sinclair always thought Curtis Prescott liked quiet and gentle girls.
Like the senior student from college who once walked alongside him through the library corridor.
His eyes shone when he looked at her back then.
But now, he chose Elara Joyce.
Bold, radiant, from an illustrious family background.
This was unexpected to her.
However, none of this mattered anymore.
It had nothing to do with her.
Her experiences growing up taught her one thing.
Know your place, don't cross the line.
She was a child adopted by the Prescott Family, formally Curtis Prescott's niece, but with no blood relation.
She could be treated well, could be taken care of.
But shouldn't have any delusional thoughts.
Curtis Prescott walked ahead with steady steps, listening to her last words "who wouldn't like her," he merely replied briefly.
"That's good."
The two of them went downstairs, one after the other.
The wooden stairs creaked softly.
At the dining table already sat Walter Prescott and his two children.
Hannah Prescott had gone out to entertain friends last night and hadn't encountered Vivian Sinclair, and upon seeing her today, her gaze immediately fell on her, sizing her up, then lifting the corners of her lips.
"Oh, the young lady finally decided to come back and visit?"
She picked up a teacup, leisurely blowing on it.
"Just because grandma left, you're rushing back to split the inheritance?"
She paused, as if suddenly remembering something, deliberately drawing out her words.
"Ah, right, I forgot, you don't carry the Prescott name."
Vivian Sinclair pursed her lips, her lips moved slightly.
She had intended to lower her head, pretending she hadn't heard, swallowing her anger.
But over a decade of legal training had already embedded itself in her bones.
Almost instinctively, she raised her head.
"Isn't Mr. Prescott still alive? In good health, why fight over inheritance?"
She paused, her gaze directly confronting the person across.
"Or are you always hoping that day would come sooner?"
The meaning of her words was clear.
You, Hannah Prescott, deep down wish your father would pass away quickly, so you can get the inheritance sooner.
Hannah Prescott's face changed color swiftly.
She never expected that the Vivian Sinclair she used to boss around.
After not seeing her for a few years, she dared to say such things in front of so many people.
She was about to open her mouth to refute, but the voice got stuck in her throat.
"Enough, Hannah, stop it, big brother is still here."
It was Curtis Prescott who spoke.
He sat beside the main seat, composed and calm.
Suddenly, Hannah Prescott felt as if her path was blocked, anger surged upward.
But she dared not vent against Curtis Prescott.
Since childhood, she always kept her head down before Curtis Prescott.
This young uncle was only a few years older than her, but his demeanor and presence overshadowed hers.
Even when silent, he commanded respect, when he spoke, others dared not utter another word.
No matter how vexed she was, she could only grit her teeth.
Walter Prescott, who was Uncle Hawthorne, had already darkened his expression.
He was originally picking up his food, but hearing the "inheritance struggle" made his chopsticks pause, wiping away his smile.
He slowly raised his head, coldly glared at his daughter.
"Can't mind your mouth even while eating? No manners in front of guests."
Hannah Prescott instantly felt drained of energy.
Her shoulders shrunk, lowering her head, her fingers twisting the hem of her clothes.
Yet in her heart, she resented Vivian Sinclair with a clenched jaw.
How dare a girl living under another's roof confront her?
Sooner or later, she'll get her.
Across, Vincent Prescott was slightly taken aback, he glanced over at Vivian Sinclair.
He had been casually peeling an orange.
He looked at the side of Vivian Sinclair's face.
That girl... wasn't she just a pushover before?
How is it now that she can also prick?
The family dined together around the table, the feast rich and fragrant.
But everyone's expressions held different thoughts.
After dinner, the servants quietly cleared the dishes.
The coffee table in the living room was soon filled with fruits and delicate desserts.
A bouquet of white roses stood in the center of the table.
Sharon Quinn sat on the sofa, casually picking up a slice of mango.
She handed the fork over to Vivian Sinclair sitting beside her.
"Here, have some fruit, it's good for the skin. Girls should pay more attention to maintenance."
Vivian Sinclair looked down at the piece of mango.
Her fingers slightly curled.
She was about to thank her, to take the fork, but suddenly a sweet voice sounded.
"Aunty, I want some too."
It was Hannah Prescott.
She stood up from the other side of the sofa.
Walking to the coffee table, her face wore a clever smile.
Sharon Quinn turned smilingly, without hesitation picked up another piece of fruit and handed it over.
"Hannah loves this. It was just shipped from abroad, try it, see if it's sweet."
"Thank you, Aunty."
Hannah Prescott sweetly responded, took the fork, and slowly took a bite.
The fruit was sweet and juicy, she squinted her eyes, seemingly enjoying it a lot.
But her gaze slyly swept towards Vivian Sinclair.
Vivian Sinclair pursed her lips.
Holding onto the fork, her fingertips slightly chilled, a wave of indescribable emotion rose in her heart.
When Sharon Quinn got up to check on the tea in the kitchen.
Curtis Prescott got up to take a phone call.
The others gradually left the living room, and the originally lively space slowly quieted down.
Vivian Sinclair looked down at the fork in her hand, then at the piece of almost untouched mango.
She let out a gentle sigh and put the fork down.
That piece of mango lay quietly on the plate, the flesh still bright, yet no one touched it again.
She's allergic to mango.
This fact, even she can barely remember when it started.
She faintly recalls, she was about seven or eight years old.
A neighbor brought back a golden mango from the south and specially brought it over for grandma to taste.
Grandma took the fruit, her face loving, saying, "This is rare, I can't bear to eat it, I'll save it for my granddaughter to nourish her body."
That afternoon, grandma secretly handed her the peeled mango, instructing her not to let anyone else know.
She was thrilled and devoured it in a few bites.
But shortly after, her face began to burn, her neck turned red, and it then spread to her arms, chest.
Her whole body quickly broke out in dense red spots.
She curled up in bed in pain, tears couldn't be stopped, her throat hoarsely crying, "Grandma, I feel terrible."
Grandma was petrified, she carried her to the hospital overnight.
The doctor diagnosed it as a severe allergic reaction.
If they had been any later, it might have led to anaphylactic shock.
She received an allergy shot, was put on a drip, and only improved after three days in the hospital.