There was barely any scent of alcohol on Atlas Hallow; his tolerance was quite impressive, so two or three glasses of red wine were nothing to him.
But Charlotte Miller was different. She began to exude a faint fragrance of wine, her small face flushed, her eyes misty and inebriated.
If it were any other woman, she might have lost her composure while drunk, but not Charlotte.
Atlas Hallow's big hand firmly held Charlotte's slender waist. He exuded a cold aura as if no one could approach him, and all the warmth was meant to envelop the woman beside him.
The night was not actually over yet, for after the auction, everyone would partake in the usual mingling and photo sessions, but Atlas Hallow seemed entirely uninterested in staying here any longer.
At the entrance of the conference center, someone had already brought his car around. He helped Charlotte into the car, then got into the driver's seat himself, reaching over to buckle her seatbelt.
