In the Palm of One's Hand
At first, Song Mi only wanted to have a bit of fun; later, she changed her mind and decided to take the game seriously. Who could have guessed that the man would push his luck, relying on his powerful family to chase her all the way to the detention center? “Marry me, and I’ll use the entire Wen family to bail you out,” he declared. Only then did she realize she had played with fire. “Well, that’s one solution,” she replied coolly, “but I’ve already promised someone else.” Heartless and indifferent, she cast him aside like an old shoe. With her sincerity and dignity trampled beneath her feet, Wen Yanli could only wish he could cut open her heart to see what truly lay within. Little did he know, she had already turned to a path of no return. —One reckless thought led her to hell, and she was by no means innocent. If she had the chance to begin again, she would never have provoked him! One night, his presence seared into her bones—he was no gentle soul, and yet from the very start, he had placed his sincere heart willingly into her hands.
In the Palm of One's Hand
Jinzhou City.
At 9:45 in the morning, a long, golden Phantom car came to a steady halt at the entrance to the mourning hall outside the Shen residence.
Oblivious to the onlookers outside, a respectful voice soon sounded inside the car, “Miss Song, we’ve arrived.”
Seated in the back was a woman wearing a black hat, black sunglasses, and a black dress. When the driver circled around to open the door, her cool, matte red lips curled slightly as she raised the urn from beside her with both hands.
She stepped out of the car.
Given the solemnity of the occasion, even though journalists from various magazines loitered openly and covertly all around, the scene remained under control.
“Miss Song, will you be making Old Master Shen’s will public today?”
“Miss Song, what is your relationship with Old Master Shen?”
“Miss Song, the stock price of Sihai Group has been falling for several days…”
A bodyguard cleared the way ahead, “Please make way.”
“Excuse us, please let us through.”
Her ten-centimeter black stilettos struck the ground with authority as she walked, composed and dignified in her mourning black, all eyes fixed on her in astonishment as she strode straight toward the black-and-white portrait in the inner hall.
The Shen family had long been informed.
No matter how bitterly resentful they felt, all they could do was wait, eyes glued, for this woman they had never met.
The old man had always been a romantic; otherwise, how could he have fathered twelve children? Yet, the greatest irony was that, for a
