She looked up instinctively. The young man was walking toward her, holding a rose. Perhaps it was the dim lighting, but his features looked deep-set and defined, giving him a certain alpha air.
'Ahem, Scholar Quincy really did fit the phrase "a beast in fine clothes,"' she thought. 'With his clothes on—a handsome, elite member of society. With them off—a pervert.'
If Mortimer Quincy knew that in such a romantic setting, his wife was calling him a pervert, he would have laughed in exasperation.
He walked over and handed her the flower, raising an eyebrow. "Happy seventh anniversary, Honey."
Holly Winslow accepted the flower, putting on a "curious" expression. "Hubby, how much stashed cash do you have left? Give me a ballpark figure."
Mortimer Quincy: "..."
'He'd originally thought his wife would say, "Happy seventh anniversary to you too, Hubby."'
He'd gotten his hopes up.
"Reporting to my dear wife, I have no private stash."
