But it was precisely this tenuous blood relation that left her with no choice.
"Some," she answered.
It was the truth.
During that brief half-month in the Capital, every night was sleepless.
Jiang Lin heard her and nodded, "Take care of your health."
"Thank you for your concern, President Jiang," she responded, her words still polite and distant.
Even if Jiang Lin didn't want to hear it at the moment, it seemed there was nothing he could do, for hadn't he brought it upon himself?
Hadn't he dug his own grave?
"Come home for dinner tonight; Grandfather might not say it, but he probably has his opinions."
"Alright," she answered, concise and to the point.
Without any intention of further conversation.
Jiang Muwan quenched the faint sparks emerging from Jiang Lin with her indifference.
In a moment of clarity, Jiang Lin saw a glimpse of Song Rong in Jiang Muwan.
Lofty, proud, a noble birth had endowed her with an inherent disdain for the common folk.
