Samuel Johnson leaned casually against the black sedan, a cigarette lit in his hand. His handsome, noble face was expressionless, and those delicate peach blossom eyes were now cloaked in a layer of frost, chilling to behold.
Several cigarette butts had already been discarded on the ground, indicating that he had been waiting there for quite some time.
Behind him stood the bodyguards he had brought, several burly men blocking the intersection with an intimidating stance.
Mrs. Johnson looked in disbelief at the person before her, and one thought kept resurfacing in her mind: How could he be here?
Cold sweat formed on her forehead, and her hands shook incessantly on the steering wheel. She simply couldn't understand—what exactly had gone wrong? How did Samuel Johnson find out?
And to think that he had arrived so much earlier than her, having waited here for so long?
