A few years ago, a woman in her forties from the countryside, clad in tattered clothes and with mud-stained shoes, stumbled into the Lowell family estate, weary and bedraggled.
Her speech was heavily accented and trembling, incoherent and scattered.
She knelt in the middle of the living room, clutching the edge of the table tightly with her hands, her nails turning white, and repeatedly shouted.
"Tristan Lowell! Give me back my money! Give me back my life! My husband died unjustly!"
At the time, the Lowell family servants wanted to drive her away.
But she clung to the door frame as if insane, her cries heart-wrenching.
In the end, it was the security guards who forcibly dragged her out.
That heartrending cry lingered in Cora Lowell's ears for a long time afterward.
Could it be...
The matter is far from simple?
Cora Lowell's fingers trembled slightly as scenes flashed through her mind.
The woman's mentions of "ideas," "blueprints," "stolen patents."
