After repeated rounds of applause, the stage had already lost most of its performers.
Yet, George River couldn't help but fixate his gaze on one person's profile.
Her dark hair, fair skin, red lips, and delicately trembling lashes were all so enchantingly beautiful. She was like a sprite playing in a nighttime rose garden, dyed in the shadows of night, yet also carrying the ravishing red of the roses.
As sharp as the thorns of a rose, they could easily puncture the skin, letting blood flow out, the sharp pain traveling through the blood vessels to the heart.
George tried to force his eyes away, but no matter what, the corner of his eye couldn't leave the girl's exquisitely fair profile.
Not until the person beside him called him in a soft voice. It took him a moment to regain his composure, using the dimness of the hall to hide the loss in his eyes, "Tiffany, what is it?"
