"Click, click, click," the pointed sound of high heels echoed through the room as they hit the floor.
The door was pushed open, and Isabella Foster, with a handkerchief over her mouth and nose, strolled in gracefully.
The room was in complete disorder. Peter Aria was standing against the wall, veins popping out on his neck and back of his hand as though he was forcibly enduring some kind of pain.
At his feet lay a woman, her clothes in disarray, surrounded by fragments of a shattered flower vase.
Grinding his teeth, Peter Aria said, "So, it's you. What do you want?"
"My dear brother, you don't cherish women, do you? Knocking her out like this saves me the trouble of doing it myself. Of course, a woman like this would never catch your eye, given your celibate lifestyle for the sake of your first love all these years."
Vanessa Aria shifted her gaze and spotted a man lying unconscious on the bed. A faint smile crossed her face.
"Maybe you'd like to guess what I intend to do?"
