...
Time seemed to freeze suddenly. Their poses, movements, even expressions, all paused like a still photograph. Faye Owen seemed to be struck by a bolt of shocking lightning. In the aftermath of her palpitations, her mind was chaotically blank, devoid of any consciousness.
Yves King, too, did not expect such a scene. He looked down at her. Her shiny black hair piled up high, owning a face that could be described as perfectly beautiful, to call her a goddess would not be an exaggeration. Now, she no longer possessed the cold, arrogant look when she sat in her office chair as the president, no longer had the sharplly dominant aura. Half of her face bore a lost expression, a helplessness as if she were a pitiful, lovely figure. This was a sight to stir feelings of protectiveness.
If one were to pinpoint the most tragic day in Faye Owen's twenty-five-year-old life, undoubtedly, today would be that day. The startling turn of events left her feeble and weak-kneed.
