His steps faltered as a storm of emotions brewed within him. The mere mention of the blond made his blood boil.
"I have to get closer to her… make her see things my way," Mervyn said, his voice barely above a whisper, but dripping with determination.
He nodded to himself, as if solidifying a plan in his mind. Then, with a venomous edge to his tone, he added, "That whore Ryley… I hope he rots wherever he is!"
As they approached the garden's gazebo, the serene atmosphere was almost disorienting.
There sat Madam Beckett, her posture regal, beside Starla, who looked weary from what seemed like an intense therapy session.
The contrast between the peaceful setting and the storm brewing within Mervyn was stark.
"Good morning, Madam Beckett, Miss Starla," Mervyn greeted, his tone laced with a respect that masked the fire beneath.
Morgan, sensing the importance, echoed with an innocent, almost reverent tone.
