Miles pressed his lips into a thin line. He searched for a while before he finally spotted Molly near the entrance of the Sterile Workshop, peeling off her cleanroom suit.
Under the harsh fluorescent lights that made the space bright as noon, the glow fell across her face. Even from a distance, he could see her clearly.
Her bone structure was striking. Porcelain skin without a trace of makeup. The predawn chill cut deep, and she'd wrapped herself in a drab gray cashmere blanket, yet she still looked stunning—effortlessly, devastatingly beautiful.
Molly was finishing up a conversation with the current general manager. The man was in his forties, a full head taller than her, yet he listened to her with obvious deference.
"Miles, Molly didn't get where she is just because of your parents' help, you know?"
Felix was reminding him: when it came to Molly, Miles didn't just lack understanding—he was deeply prejudiced.
When Molly walked past Miles, she acted as though she hadn't seen him.
It wasn't deliberate coldness. She simply hadn't slept in over twenty-four hours, and by now, she was running on fumes.
"About today—I misjudged the situation. I'm sorry." His voice was quiet.