Beatrice Hargrave suddenly sat up straight, her hands resting flat on her knees, and said seriously, "Uncle Croft, it’s not about meddling or not, this is a fact. Now that life is better, so many people indulge in reckless eating and drinking that they ruin their health..."
"Stop!" Before Beatrice Hargrave could finish her sermon, Nicholas Croft raised his hand to interrupt her. This girl is definitely not Sophie Foster, his Sophie does whatever makes her happy, sneaks his cigars, drinks his red wine, and often lies on the sofa too drunk to be aware of anything, never caring about healthy or unhealthy.
"What’s wrong? Did I say something incorrect?" Beatrice Hargrave blinked in confusion, her eyes clear, unlike Sophie Foster who often has a sly sparkle in hers.
"No," Nicholas Croft also sat up straight and said seriously, "but these words are not suitable to come from a child’s mouth."
Beatrice Hargrave looked thoughtful. Nicholas Croft had already stood up, grabbed a bottle of red wine and a goblet, and came over to sit beside her, "Want to try?"
Beatrice Hargrave shook her head, her face full of disdain, "No."
"Try it. It’s a disadvantage not to drink in the entertainment industry." He continued to persuade her as he brought the goblet closer to her.
"Really?" She glanced at the red liquid in front of her, asking doubtfully.
Taking back the goblet, Nicholas Croft’s eyes twinkled with a hint of a smile, he brought the goblet to his lips and took a sip, while Beatrice Hargrave watched the enticing red liquid slowly flow into the man’s mouth, clearly wanting to try but hesitant to speak up.
Back at the villa, Nathan Moore couldn’t sleep at all.
Having just taken a bath, his body enveloped in dampness from the bathrobe, and strands of damp hair lying on his forehead.
He took a bottle of red wine from the cabinet and returned to the sofa, spending time sipping red wine alone.
The image of taking Titus Zane to bandage his wrist wouldn’t leave his mind.
That woman is really stubborn. It was clearly painful when applying the ointment, yet she only frowned and said, "It doesn’t hurt."
How could it not hurt?
Such a large scar, oval-shaped, almost the size of a bean, this woman!
After taking a sip of red wine, Nathan Moore sighed in his heart.
Thinking about the scar on her pale wrist made him feel sad.
And that light scar on her forehead...
Alas, this woman, keeping that scar, I don’t know if it’s a reminder to herself or a warning to him.
No, he must remove her scar, he can’t let her be reminded of his faults every time she sees it.
Putting down the goblet, Nathan Moore grabbed his cellphone, retrieved the number Titus Zane dialed when he drunkenly used her phone to secretly call him, and without hesitation, he dialed it.
Titus Zane was suffering from insomnia again, it was already past midnight, yet he felt no sleepiness.
Having just taken a shower, his long hair still dropping water beads occasionally, he wore a hotel bathrobe and leaned on the balcony railing, holding a wine glass, watching the sparse traffic on the streets to pass the time.
In just a few minutes, he had already drunk most of the red wine, his cheeks slightly flushed from the hurry, but his mind felt clearer.
The ringtone of his phone lying on the bedsheets rang. Titus Zane turned his head back, staring at the flashing screen, yet did not rush to answer it.
Lifting his swan-like neck, he took another sip of red wine before walking towards the large bed, looking at the familiar number on the touchscreen, hesitant whether to answer or not.