Your Regrets Won't Bring Me Back - Chapter 67: Chapter 67
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Startled, Elena looked up into a pair of dark, fox-like eyes.
Simon Whitmore? Why had this immovable idol shown up again?
Elena said, "Since Young Master Whitmore favors this seat, I'll leave you to it."
She rose, but Simon pressed her firmly back into the chair.
Leaning close to her ear, he murmured, "Don't go. Wait here—I'll show you a spectacular performance in a minute."
Elena stared at him in bewilderment. "What do you mean?" she asked.
Simon flashed her a dangerously charming smile, lifted his wineglass, and pivoted away.
Elena ignored his advice; the moment he disappeared, she rose and stepped out onto the balcony.
She had no desire to provoke Simon Whitmore—and even less interest in whatever "good show" he had hinted at.
Inside, Simon singled out Annabelle Bennett from the crowd and strode straight toward her, blocking her way.
"Miss Annabelle," Simon greeted, his tone lazy yet unmistakably authoritative.
Annie blinked, lifted her gaze into those fathomless eyes, and froze on the spot.
She hadn't looked closely when they first met; face-to-face now, she realized he was almost unreal in his beauty.
Victor Whitmore was already striking, but this man looked as if a master sculptor had perfected every feature; together they formed a face worthy of a museum.
Adaline recovered first. "Annie, why are you staring? Greet your uncle, quickly!" she urged.
Annie lowered her head; Simon's deep, unreadable gaze was genuinely intimidating.
"Hello, Uncle Simon," she murmured.
Adaline smiled. "Mr. Whitmore, may I ask what brings you to my daughter?"
Simon's lips curved higher, the smile broadening yet never warming his eyes.
He offered his glass to Annie. "Since the word 'Uncle' is out, I'll accept it. I didn't prepare a gift for my new niece-in-law, so please forgive me."
Simon drained his own glass first.
Annie lifted her wine. "Uncle, it should be me toasting you," she said, then emptied the glass in one breath.
Simon glanced at her now-empty glass, said nothing, and turned away.
Still dazed, Annie held the glass. "Mom, wasn't Young Master Simon against me a moment ago? Why did he suddenly toast me?"
Adaline frowned heavily. "I don't know, but keep your distance. A toast from that man rarely means anything good."
"Why? Is he really that scary? Mom, how much do you know about him?" Annie pressed.
Adaline said, "He's formidable. When Elena was eight, our families toured the western region together. He was fifteen, spoke little, but was wild—he even killed a yak during that trip. Imagine the violence in a boy that young."
She went on, "There are only two unmarried Whitmore men, Victor and Simon. People say Simon keeps to himself—nearly thirty and never dated a woman. Victor is far easier to handle. Just remember: stay away from Simon."
Goosebumps rose on Annie's arms. "Understood, Mom. It's about time—let's move!"
When the two women turned back, Elena had vanished.
Simon Whitmore? Why had this immovable idol shown up again?
Elena said, "Since Young Master Whitmore favors this seat, I'll leave you to it."
She rose, but Simon pressed her firmly back into the chair.
Leaning close to her ear, he murmured, "Don't go. Wait here—I'll show you a spectacular performance in a minute."
Elena stared at him in bewilderment. "What do you mean?" she asked.
Simon flashed her a dangerously charming smile, lifted his wineglass, and pivoted away.
Elena ignored his advice; the moment he disappeared, she rose and stepped out onto the balcony.
She had no desire to provoke Simon Whitmore—and even less interest in whatever "good show" he had hinted at.
Inside, Simon singled out Annabelle Bennett from the crowd and strode straight toward her, blocking her way.
"Miss Annabelle," Simon greeted, his tone lazy yet unmistakably authoritative.
Annie blinked, lifted her gaze into those fathomless eyes, and froze on the spot.
She hadn't looked closely when they first met; face-to-face now, she realized he was almost unreal in his beauty.
Victor Whitmore was already striking, but this man looked as if a master sculptor had perfected every feature; together they formed a face worthy of a museum.
Adaline recovered first. "Annie, why are you staring? Greet your uncle, quickly!" she urged.
Annie lowered her head; Simon's deep, unreadable gaze was genuinely intimidating.
"Hello, Uncle Simon," she murmured.
Adaline smiled. "Mr. Whitmore, may I ask what brings you to my daughter?"
Simon's lips curved higher, the smile broadening yet never warming his eyes.
He offered his glass to Annie. "Since the word 'Uncle' is out, I'll accept it. I didn't prepare a gift for my new niece-in-law, so please forgive me."
Simon drained his own glass first.
Annie lifted her wine. "Uncle, it should be me toasting you," she said, then emptied the glass in one breath.
Simon glanced at her now-empty glass, said nothing, and turned away.
Still dazed, Annie held the glass. "Mom, wasn't Young Master Simon against me a moment ago? Why did he suddenly toast me?"
Adaline frowned heavily. "I don't know, but keep your distance. A toast from that man rarely means anything good."
"Why? Is he really that scary? Mom, how much do you know about him?" Annie pressed.
Adaline said, "He's formidable. When Elena was eight, our families toured the western region together. He was fifteen, spoke little, but was wild—he even killed a yak during that trip. Imagine the violence in a boy that young."
She went on, "There are only two unmarried Whitmore men, Victor and Simon. People say Simon keeps to himself—nearly thirty and never dated a woman. Victor is far easier to handle. Just remember: stay away from Simon."
Goosebumps rose on Annie's arms. "Understood, Mom. It's about time—let's move!"
When the two women turned back, Elena had vanished.
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