CHAPTER 147: CHAPTER 147: SHE FERVENTLY THREW HERSELF INTO HIS ARMS

The quiet hallway, the air is stagnant.

Her white figure is as soft and light as moonlight, like a beam of light.

A light that once illuminated his dark life.

His wife.

The only thought that keeps him going.

Ian Kane greedily traced her outline, his heart racing.

She approached, her lips slightly curved, her gaze flowing... The familiar tenderness made the tip of his heart tremble, almost wanting to step forward and embrace her.

Vera Sheridan had already reached in front of him.

"Vera—" His smile froze abruptly at the corners of his mouth.

The white tutu skirt brushed past his trousers, the faintly fragrant figure directly passing by him.

Ian Kane was frozen in place.

The next second, he suddenly turned around—

"You’re back!" Vera’s clear voice cut through the silence.

Noah Grant stood just behind the off-white iron safety door, Vera’s lively figure enthusiastically heading toward him.

The man opened his arms, securely, tightly embracing her.

Ian watched with eyes wide open, fists clenched, his body slightly wavering.

On countless late nights returning home, the scene of her joyfully greeting him, "You’re back!"

Now transformed into a sharp blade, piercing his heart with intense pain, his eyes a vivid red.

Noah Grant caressed the back of Vera’s head, his deep gaze skimmed over Ian Kane, released her, and with a subtle smile said, "Congratulations, Ms. Sheridan."

"How’s the ankle?" he asked warmly, his eyes falling on her right foot.

Vera lifted her heel and twirled deftly, "It’s fine, I’m going to remove my makeup and change clothes."

Noah nodded, naturally clasping her wrist, leading her to the dressing room.

Ian Kane remained frozen, his gaze unwaveringly fixed on Vera’s enchanting face.

Yet she seemed oblivious, whispering to Noah Grant while walking, "Just off the plane?"

Their figures passed by him.

In an instant, vanished around the corner ahead.

...

In the dressing room, Vera leaned back in the chair, resting with closed eyes, allowing the makeup artist to gently remove her makeup.

Suddenly, a comfortable coolness spread from her right ankle.

At an unknown time, Noah Grant had knelt on one knee, crouched by her foot.

His eyes downcast, his thick lashes casting a small shadow beneath them, his long, well-defined fingers deftly securing the cold compress ice pack on Vera’s slender ankle.

The professional yet gentle action, the expensive suit pants tight from the crouched position, outlining strong, smooth leg lines, created a breath-taking tension with his gentle posture.

The makeup artist’s hand paused subconsciously, feeling a slight warmth on her cheeks, even her breath softened a bit.

This imposing figure from the Finance headlines, a major player in The Capital Circle, was now naturally kneeling to tend to Vera’s ankle.

The focused and silent care was both handsome and heart-stirring!

"It would be best to apply a cold compress." He stood up, looking at Vera, his voice magnetic and low.

Vera smiled, "Thank you."

Noah Grant pulled out the chair opposite to sit down, his long legs naturally crossed, the posture relaxed yet containing an unseen pressure.

His gaze locked on her, the tone seeming casual: "Have you heard any rumors?"

Vera’s fingertips subtly curled, she lifted her eyelids, a face of confusion, "What?"

Noah’s gaze paused on her face for half a second, saying nothing, his long fingers reached into the inside pocket of his suit, leisurely pulling out a cigarette, playing with it between his fingers.

Then, he neatly stood up.

"I’m going for a smoke."

Vera acknowledged with an "Mm."

The tall figure walked to the door, the metal lighter made a slight "click" in his palm.

The door opened, he didn’t look back, walking straight out.

In the dressing room, only Vera and the makeup artist remained, the air still carrying the cool, crisp scent of him, along with a trace of low tension.

The soft sound of the lock falling was remarkably clear in the empty room.

Vera closed her eyes, in her chest, the passion and emotion of returning to the stage had yet to completely dissipate.

"Ms. Sheridan, what exactly is going on between you and Mr. Grant?" the makeup artist cautiously gossiped.

Vera lifted her lips, the tone seemingly joking, "No comment."

In the past two years, she immersed herself in the dullness of rehabilitation and closed training, with no time for romance.

Meanwhile, after Noah Grant had his lawyer’s license revoked, his domestic and international business empire underwent a restructuring and consolidation, busy until half a year ago when he finally settled the company in Veridia.

...

The end of the concert.

In the dim alley behind the theater, Ian Kane leaned obliquely against the cold wall, his figure almost merging into the heavy shadow.

A cigarette dangled at the corner of his mouth, unlit, his head slightly dropped, a few strands of hair falling over his brow, covering his eyes.

His suit jacket hung loosely open, tie slackened, one foot braced against the wall, desolate, dissolute, exuding a sense of shattering.

Not far away, the engine of a truck roared.

The staff busily loading the baskets of flowers onto the truck one by one.

Ian Kane’s gaze fell on a corner of the scene.

There lay the basket of flowers he had sent, lonely and abandoned.

The imported white roses paired with deep blue velvet ribbons, his carefully chosen sentiment.

"That one, don’t load it, Ms. Sheridan said to throw it in the trash," a staff member called out.

A staff member casually picked up the flower basket, handling it like a piece of useless garbage.

With a dull "thud,"

The flower basket was mercilessly and heavily tossed into a huge green trash bin next to it.

The tender petals of the white roses scattered a few, falling on the grimy ground...