Hold On Mr.! Your Sweetheart is a Real Queen

Chapter 142: Chapter 141: You Can Leave

In the room, no one spoke, only the "whoosh" of the hairdryer in Daisy Ginger’s hand could be heard.

The warm air scattered the fresh and elegant fragrance on her body after the shower into the air. Edward Stephens opened his eyes and looked at Daisy Ginger’s back turned to him, with her fluffy, curly long hair and slender, graceful waist wrapped under the silk robe.

At this moment, the bright morning sun had just started peeking through, casting pale pinkish shadows on the transparent glass window, enveloping the room in a hazy scene.

The woman’s silhouette, the damp fragrance in the air, the dim and misty light indoors, and the gradually rising morning sun outside... Edward Stephens felt as if he were gazing at an old oil painting, carrying a hint of fantasy and unreality.

He rubbed his temples and gently began to speak as Daisy Ginger turned off the hairdryer, "Was it Ian Linton who took you home yesterday?"

Daisy Ginger lowered her head, pulled out the hairdryer’s plug, and wrapped the cord around the handle, as if she hadn’t heard him speak.

said lightly, "Have you

open the drawer, put away the hairdryer, and

wall with her chin slightly upraised, her bright eyes staring at the man sitting

some instruction—Mr. Stephens, what identity are you assuming while asking

as he looked at Daisy Ginger’s defiant posture, narrowing his eyes slightly: "You’re a young woman alone drunk in front of a man, asking him to bring you home—don’t you worry that something

Ian, do you think everyone is like you

front of Edward Stephens, bent over to look at him, and taunted, "Old lovers, unfinished business, one man and one woman alone in a

eyes darkened, he reached out to grasp Daisy Ginger’s wrist, feeling her delicate, slender frame, as if a little force could easily break

scoffed again, disdainfully prying his hand away, walking over to the bedside table to find a pack of cigarettes, leaning against the window, blowing

cold, carrying a slight hoarse timbre unique to her voice, without any emotion, "What are you

mother’s tailor made you