Chapter 259: I Know a Woman’s Heart

Bennett, raging with anger, was surprisingly calm as he stared at the girl. Though she said nothing directly, he understood everything from her attitude.

Sometimes, anger isn’t born of hatred or disgust; and calmness doesn’t always mean acceptance.

“It’s all a lie…” Bennett tapped his head. “How much did they pay you?”

The girl didn’t answer. She quietly stood, packed her things, and prepared to leave if Bennett didn’t stop her.

She had expected to be beaten, but things weren’t as bad as she imagined.

Both Bennett and Annie experienced complex shifts in their mindsets during their time together.

Putting aside Bennett’s changes, didn’t the girl herself sometimes wish the fake act could become real?

She did—more than once she hoped it could.

Every girl longs to be the center of attention—not by how much she exposes, but through presence.

During her time with Bennett, she experienced a life she had only seen in movies and TV.

It was tedious—details of dining etiquette, daily manners; every step had to be perfect. Bennett never yelled at her for mistakes, only patiently showed her how to avoid embarrassment.

It was boring—what clothes to wear each season, how to dress for different occasions, social circles, and classes. Each was a headache and frankly dull.

It was rigid—strict rules on what to say, do, and when. When she could talk to others, or just stand by Bennett’s side. No surprises allowed.

Yet all these were part of a life many long for—an illusion sold to innocent girls as the perfect ending for a countryside girl in a bedtime story.

But Annie couldn’t bear it—because from the start, it was a deal, a scam.

No matter what she wore, where she stood, or whom she accompanied, she could never become someone else.

She was herself—a stripper, a girl who needed to earn money—the public’s symbol of vulgarity and lowliness.

It was all just a dream, and now the dream was over.

After packing, she left the bedroom. Seeing Bennett on the sofa, head in hands, she felt some guilt and asked softly, “Are you sure you won’t hit me?”

Bennett didn’t even look up or respond.

She lingered a moment, left the room key behind, and pulled her suitcase away.

She took only her belongings, leaving behind everything else—including jewelry and accessories Bennett had bought her.

Walking the empty streets, she looked up at the mild sun. The soft light made her eyes sting. She wiped her tears and quickened her pace.

She didn’t know if her old apartment had been rented out. She still had to live.

The next day, back at work, George ruthlessly purged most of the credit department—over twenty employees dismissed for various reasons.

The Sabin City branch held a meeting to explain the situation and ordered all local banks to strengthen staff training and management to prevent similar mistakes.

Then George finished handling the auction documents. With the bank manager’s support, he organized a small auction and selected suitable bidders.

Among them was Lynch—the financially healthiest of the group.

Afterward, Lynch wrote a heartfelt thank-you letter to George, expressing gratitude with precise figures and even inquiring about his injury. George was deeply moved and called Lynch to thank him.

Setting aside these small matters, Lynch now prepared for the president’s celebration.

This was no minor political event—it was a chance to engage closely with the country’s ruler for at least the next six years. Naturally, Lynch wanted to be well-prepared.

But he wasn’t in a tailor’s workshop choosing clothes or at a jeweler’s looking at designs. He was on the phone, playing with a book called How to Quickly Integrate into the College Social Circle.

The bestseller’s author was a tycoon’s daughter, raised among society’s elite. To her, the glamorous upper class was everyday life.

She was special. Lynch got her phone number from the publisher and, as a fan, also secured some potential future cooperation.

At the president’s event, everyone’s companion mattered. Lynch didn’t have such a person—someone who could open doors while maintaining dignity.

His ex-girlfriend wouldn’t do. Among the women he knew, only Miss Tracy fit the role.

But Tracy was too old and unsuitable. Just as he was at a loss, he remembered the book.

Lynch checked the girl’s background and confirmed she qualified—and was the right age, only four years older than him.

In privileged circles, a three- or five-year age gap didn’t show.

“This is Mr. Wadrick’s residence…” The call was answered quickly by a butler with a strong traditional Baylor accent, nasal and slightly off in some pronunciations.

Such an accent was rare nowadays, mostly heard in opera singing.

“I’m looking for Miss Severella. I’m a fan of her book.”

The butler was surprised to hear such a reason but didn’t hang up immediately. He asked for Lynch’s name and said the young lady would decide whether to take the call.

This was because the Wadrick residence phone wasn’t public—only high-class people, often of equal or higher rank than Mr. Wadrick, knew the number.

These people represented the mainstream elite and core of society—not someone a butler could offend, even if Lynch’s reason sounded weak.

Soon, voices came through, then the sound of the receiver being lifted. A girl spoke.

Lynch knew his reason would be accepted. From the moment he saw the book, he guessed some of the girl’s traits—vanity, desire for recognition.

Being a fan was a perfect entry point.

But Miss Severella wasn’t a naïve white swan. She was smarter than most girls her age.

Her first words immediately exposed Lynch’s excuse: “I didn’t know I still had fans who could call me, Mr. Lynch.”

People in her social circle didn’t read her books—those were just everyday life to them. The readers were ordinary people who longed to be part of her world, with lower social status and class. They wouldn’t easily get her home number, so she saw Lynch’s reason as just an excuse.

Still, it was a comfortable excuse, and curious to hear his response, she decided to talk with him.

“I really read your book. The story’s interesting. Maybe we could turn it into a TV show or movie?” For a girl like her, Lynch’s casual little tricks were enough to disarm her.

Severella didn’t care about adaptation rights or royalties—being born into that family meant she never lacked money.

What she lacked was family attention, recognition, and the envy of her close friends.

Those things couldn’t be bought or faked; they had to come from strangers, society’s approval.

If her work was sought for adaptation by others rather than self-funded, it would prove something to certain family members.

Lynch had moved her, and she suddenly became hopeful.

“I believe your call isn’t just about this. Tell me your real purpose!” Though touched, she didn’t agree immediately but asked if there were any conditions.

Lynch didn’t hide his intent. “I have a social event soon and need a suitable companion. I’ve read your book and know your situation. I think you’d be the perfect choice.”