Sylvan Cheney's eyes grew colder.
It seemed there were plenty of people who talked too much.
Jasmine Yale couldn't believe her father was dead; she only believed in the actual truth.
"Mr. Cheney, can you please return my mother's belongings to me? Photo albums, jewelry, sketchbooks...so many things... She loved to paint, especially the Blue Demoness. Her paintings were beautiful, and she loved me very much."
Jasmine Yale looked at Sylvan Cheney pleadingly.
In front of this distinguished and aloof man, she was utterly helpless.
She could only beg him.
"How would I know where your mother's things are, Jasmine Yale? Don't be unreasonable," Sylvan Cheney said, staring at her.
"Do you really not know?" Jasmine also looked at him.
Their eyes met, and the chill between them intensified.
The air temperature plummeted.
The living room became bitterly cold.
Did he really not know?
Sylvan Cheney let out a cold laugh, clearly deeming the question unworthy of a response.
