The lights in the villa had long since been turned off, leaving it pitch-black.
He still rembered how, in the past, no matter how late he returned, a warm, orange light would always be left on for him in the living room and bedroom.
The light was so warm. Although he truly hated Annabelle Linton at the ti, that faint glow had always ward his heart.
Now, he finally realized.
It wasn’t the light that had ward his heart, but Annabelle Linton, who would wait up for him no matter how late he ca ho.
Leona Grant pursed his lips. Shrouded in darkness, he let out a soft sigh and entered the villa, a sense of desolation washing over him.
He had clothes in his car and had already changed in there.
Leona Grant irritably took off his suit jacket, casually undoing two buttons on his black shirt.
The living room was deathly silent, devoid of any human presence.
CLICK.
He flipped the living room’s main switch, illuminating the entire space. The light was harsh, and Leona Grant squinted.
The living room was the sa as ever, decorated in a modern, minimalist style.
It was his favorite style, one Annabelle Linton had chosen.
Initially, this villa was ant to be their ho, a place they should have decorated together. But he’d had no feelings for Annabelle Linton and rarely ca ho, so he hadn’t bothered with it at all.
Long after they were married, he had co ho on one rare occasion and been stunned by the living room’s design.
Touches of warm color in the furniture gave the ho a cozy atmosphere. It was neither stark nor gaudy; he had never seen a design so pleasing to the eye.
Later, he only found out it was Annabelle Linton’s design when he happened to overhear a maid ntion it.
As Leona Grant stared, he thought he saw Annabelle Linton walking out of the kitchen in a light blue apron. When she saw him, her beautiful eyes lit up, and she imdiately smiled and said, "You’re ho!"
He was about to answer, but in an instant, Annabelle Linton vanished.
He looked again. She still wasn’t there.
A faint sorrow clouded Leona Grant’s eyes.
’It was just an illusion.’
Heart aching, he went upstairs.
He opened the bedroom door. The room was still neat and clean, but the faint scent of gardenia and lavender was gone.
Those were Annabelle Linton’s two favorite floral scents.
They were calming and comforting, just like she was.
But now, it had vanished without a trace, just like she had.
By the window sat the roses she used to water, beautiful yet elegant and fresh.
Annabelle Linton had always liked these simple little things that soothed the soul; she was a woman who truly knew how to enjoy life.
Only then did Leona Grant realize that she had, without him noticing, seeped into every pore of his life.
Leona Grant pulled open the wardrobe. Sure enough, in the left-hand drawer, he found all his ties. Beside the drawer was an exquisite little box filled with all his cufflinks.
He opened another drawer. Inside were his personal effects, like underwear. They were all his usual brands and in the correct size—all brand-new and unopened, lying there quietly.
He opened another cabinet section, which held his shirts, all neatly folded inside—black and white, no other colors.
That’s right. He only wore shirts in those two colors.
Opening another closet door revealed his suits, all stored as complete sets.
Beside the closet was a white iron. He had seen Annabelle Linton use it, pressing his clothes inch by inch.
Whenever he wore clothes she had ironed, they always carried her faint scent.
He realized now that, unknowingly, he had long since grown to love her scent.
The truth was, it wasn’t that his mory was particularly good; it was that Annabelle Linton had done all the rembering for him.
Leona Grant opened the nightstand drawer. Inside were the few books he normally read and a black notebook.
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