Solitary, cold, cut off from the world.
She sat there quietly, expressionless and utterly still.
Leona Grant loved her, but he hated this side of her the most—this cold, lifeless detachment, as if she were unconcerned with the world.
When she was like this, she gave off a suffocating, death-like pressure.
At the same time, it made a person's heart clench in pain.
He let out a breath, pushed open the car door, and walked toward her.
The alcohol had dulled her senses, making her slow to react. So much so that Annabelle Linton didn't even notice when Leona Grant sat down right beside her.
Leona Grant frowned, staring at her profile. He assumed she was ignoring him on purpose and said in a low, heavy voice, "Annabelle Linton."
Annabelle Linton didn't react.
Leona Grant's frown deepened. He called out again, "Annabelle Linton!"
Annabelle Linton was startled and turned her head to look at him, her crystal-clear eyes as placid as still water.
Helpless, innocent, pitiful.
