Delphine was being dragged along by him, struggling to keep up with his pace. The hospital was bustling with people, yet the man exuded an aura of nobility and elegance, drawing numerous curious glances.
Ignatius Leclair led her straight to the parking lot, retrieved his car, and—unsurprisingly—drove the Bentley he seemed particularly fond of, steady, grand, and understated.
"Sit in the front." Ignatius's sharp eyes narrowed the moment he saw her heading for the back seat, his voice low and displeased.
Ever since that night when he drank too much and succumbed to an uncontrollable fervor, oppressively keeping her under him in endless entanglement, Ignatius had reverted to his usual cold, ascetic demeanor.
Seeing his perpetually icy expression, Delphine dared not provoke him and obediently got into the passenger seat.
