Everyone stood frozen as if they’d seen a ghost walking in daylight.
Mouths hung open.
Eyes bulged.
Brain circuits collectively burned out.
Wait—
No, no, no…
This had to be a dream.
It MUST be a dream.
But when they squeezed their eyes shut and snapped them open again—
The scene did not change.
Not one inch.
“Mr. Seehorn?!”
Someone finally broke free from the paralysis with a shrill gasp.
There, kneeling on the polished marble floor, was Gilbert Seehorn—
the Chairman of Goldsand Group—
reduced to a weeping mess.
Everyone stared, unbelieving.
How could Gilbert—
that Gilbert—
be kneeling?
And kneeling in front of that “plain old housewife”?
Impossible.
Completely impossible.
But the truth was kneeling right there, crying hard enough to drown a person.
Even Paul Lacy n
