The thunderous crash shattered the profound silence of the space, ringing out with deafening force that left everyone's ears buzzing.
All three people present whipped their heads toward the source in unison. The first thing to catch their eyes was a striking gleam of silver, quivering ever so slightly with the owner's labored, heavy breaths.
In the very next moment, Giselle Frost's breathing smoothed out, the rise and fall of her chest settling back into perfect poise.
She had recalibrated herself to her optimal state in the blink of an eye.
Even in a moment like this, the fundamental decorum expected of a young heiress remained unbroken.
Yet the thin layer of clammy sweat glistening on Giselle's forehead still laid bare her underlying disarray.
Indeed, for Giselle Frost—the eternally frosty figure who maintained an expressionless mask at all times—this appearance bordered on mortifying vulnerability.
"Elias…"
