The car quickly stopped at the entrance of a French restaurant.
Sylvan Cheney seemed to come here often; as soon as the car stopped, a waiter came over to open the door.
Indeed, just as she expected, he had a private room here.
The private room was already prepared with red wine and fresh flowers; as one entered, a pure natural floral fragrance permeated, rather than an artificial scent.
The pure white drapes were especially delicate, half drawn, allowing a view of the exterior where the lights began to shine, raindrops blurred, and the endless dark night stretched beyond.
Sylvan Cheney pulled out a chair for her: "I know you're not picky and you can eat well, so I ordered these dishes first, have a look."
Jasmine Yale glanced at the table, sat down, and nodded: "I like them all."
She truly wasn't picky.
But how could she eat!
As the door of the private room closed, the space fell into a spacious silence.
