As I reached the restroom door, I saw a tall figure standing there. It was Dane.
Wearing sunglasses, Dane leaned lazily against the wall, a cigar between his fingers, the glowing tip flickering with each breath. Smoke curled around him, veiling his handsome face in a layer of melancholy.
The moment he saw me, Dane immediately stubbed out the cigar.
Because he knew I didn’t like the smell of smoke.
“Wendy, why are you avoiding me? Why won’t you answer my calls or reply to my emails?” Dane’s deep blue eyes locked onto me, tinged with a sorrowful intensity.
“I’m not. I’ve just been too busy lately—I haven’t even checked my email,” I replied with a light smile.
In truth, I didn’t need to check. I already knew what those emails said.
Over the past two years, Dane has written me countless
