Leng Youchen inhaled his cigarette indifferently, the taste of nicotine bitter and sharp. A wisp of mist swirled in the depths of his eyes, and he spoke in a hoarse voice, "Madam, we have never had trust between us, so how can we speak of belief?"
The last glimmer of brightness in Wei Anning's eyes extinguished, and she turned her head to look out of the car window, her eyes sour and swollen. She struggled to hold back her tears. Don't cry anymore, in front of someone who doesn't love her, tears only prove her weakness.
Leng Youchen looked at her profile, those two scratch marks on her face were startling. She was so resolute. If one day she discovered that he had once humiliated her behind a mask, would she also leave him as resolutely as she scratched her own face?
Leng Youchen took a deep drag of his cigarette but suddenly choked, coughing violently as though his insides were being wrenched together. He snubbed out the cigarette and involuntarily embraced her.
