When it was almost finished, Jasmine Yale stood up: "President, it's about done. I should go home. Although there's nothing between us, I don't want to be seen and disturb my peaceful life."
"President, you should go home early too. Working too late isn't good."
Sylvan Cheney had already finished eating. He leaned back on the sofa, holding an unlit cigarette between his fingers.
He squinted his long, narrow eyes and said nothing.
Jasmine Yale slung her bag over her shoulder: "I'm leaving."
"Jasmine Yale, what do you think of me," Sylvan Cheney spoke, his gaze landing on her calm and clear face.
Jasmine didn't expect him to ask such a straightforward question. Shock and bewilderment flashed in her eyes, but soon, like a lake, she returned to calm, undisturbed by waves.
She held the strap of her bag in one hand and supported her waist with the other, her belly gently protruding.
She stood neither too close nor too far from him, but enough to see all the expressions on his face.
