“Wow, he’s back. He immediately made huge donations to the prominent art schools in the capital too. It’s great being rich, isn’t it!”

“I’ve heard that he’s our alumni, having graduated from the Southline University. That explains his generous donations. Plus, he’s the richest man in the city after all. More importantly, he’s so charming, practically the whole nation’s ideal man rich, handsome, and down to earth. There’s no one else like him in this world!”

The entirety of Southline University Art Institute was engrossed with news regarding Mark Tremont’s return, except for Arianne Wynn who stood out like a sore thumb.

Seated at the stairway, she was munching on a stale bun which had long lost its warmth. Downing the otherwise hard to swallow baked good with just plain water felt equally as cold as the winter season.

Mark Tremont. He’s back again after three years…

“Ari, why are you eating buns again? Come on, I’ll buy you a good meal!”

Tiffany Lane plopped herself down carelessly beside Arianne.

The latter shook her head before she stuffed the rest of the bun into her mouth, picking up her bag and swinging it over her shoulder. Her action emphasized her frail frame.

I’ve got to go

more buns tomorrow.

afar as Arianne paddled her bicycle, finally disappearing as

to the corner and slipped in through the back door. She put down her bag swiftly, returning to the small clammy

Sir’s looking for you… ah, and be careful. Don’t speak if you can lest he is upset, otherwise you’ll be at the receiving

the washed out jacket she wore, remembering that he disliked

whilst knocking on the door, her fingertips were trembling. She had grown a lot over the last three years, so she wondered

“Come in.”

spoke from within the room. If one did not pay attention, they perhaps may not realize the

a little. Pushing the door open and entering, she

was seated facing the French window with a magazine in his hands. The expensive tailor-made suit hugged his build perfectly, adding an exquisite wash of gray to the snow white

Occasionally, his fingers with distinct joints flipped the pages gracefully. His features, flawless as if they were painstakingly sculpted, seemed dreamy under

Tremont, he was back after

turning eighteen in

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