Even when sitting at her own desk, Jasmine Yale was still in a daze, at a loss for what to do.
She had never felt like this before.
Never before.
When she was eighteen, she confessed to him, but he didn't respond.
His response to her confession was delayed by eight years; she thought she'd never get it in this lifetime.
Jasmine touched her face with her cold hands; it was really burning. Sylvan Cheney's voice still echoed in her ears, rich and magnetic, and seriously alluring.
She sat blankly in her seat for a long time, unable to regain her composure, as if she were dreaming.
However, she pinched her palm, and it hurt.
It's not a dream.
It's not a dream.
"Jasmine, take a look at this document. It just came through," Flora Sutton came over and placed a document on her desk. She was flying to Conada tonight.
"Huh?" Jasmine looked up, "Okay, okay, I'll look at it later."
