Files were sprawled all over the President's office floor.
The man sitting on the leather swivel chair rubbed his temples, leaning back and closing his eyes.
His stomach faintly ached from not eating all day.
He reached his hand out, habitually applying pressure to his stomach to ease the pain.
The scene from lunch today reemerged in his mind…
Those words, 'President Lawrence, nice to meet you,' surfaced as well.
The same voice, the same tone, the same person. Why do her words trigger such a strong urge to choke her to death?!
Nice to meet him?
President Lawrence?
He meticulously recalled every word, every action of the woman since reuniting with her, every gesture, every detail replayed in his mind.
The more he recalled, the more suppressed he felt, and the more his chest tightened!
It was as if his chest had been slashed open, his heart exposed and repeatedly tortured.
Suddenly, he opened his eyes, sat up, and picked up the phone on the office desk, dialing a number.
