Damian Fairchild had indeed suspected this.
And when the woman before him stated it so bluntly, his suspicion reached an all-time high.
He watched her with his inscrutable, almond-shaped eyes. "It's entirely possible."
Seraphina Quinn sneered. "Fairchild, are all you men cut from the same cloth? The moment you see a pretty woman, you lose all sense. Seraphina Quinn has only been dead for six months, and you're already looking for a replacement?"
As soon as she finished speaking, Damian Fairchild gave her a humorless smile and said,
"Miss Yara, there's actually a very simple way to confirm whether or not you're the person I think you are."
Seraphina Quinn put on an expression of rapt attention. "Oh? Is that so?"
Damian Fairchild watched her bright, toothy smile and said calmly,
"Earlier, when you weren't looking, I plucked a strand of your hair. Can you guess why I did that?"
At his words, every muscle in Seraphina Quinn's face tightened.
