Her eyes were somewhat red and swollen from crying too much, and her long, shoulder-length hair was a mess, making it impossible for anyone to associate her with the perfect, fairy-like pianist in the newspapers.
Aurora Richardson's hand rested on the car door as she looked up at Joseph Thompson standing in front of her. One of his hands was in his pants pocket, while the other leaned on the gate nearby, his posture upright and casual, which only accentuated her miserable appearance.
"What's up?" Joseph glanced at the woman in front of him, his voice indifferent and distant.
"Brother Joseph, I want to talk to you..."
"Don't call me so intimately," Joseph cut her off indifferently, "You can call me Second Young Master Thompson or Joseph Thompson, but don't call me Brother Joseph or just Joseph. That would make my fiancee misunderstand."
