บททั้งหมดของ Drafting Vows: บทที่ 31 - บทที่ 36

The cold autumn wind howling through the courtyard plaza did nothing to stop the tears tracking down Lovey’s face. She stood paralyzed near the stone colonnade, staring at the empty space where Celin had just delivered a clean, crushing blow to her hopes. The words “my heart already belongs to someone” echoed like a death sentence in her mind. Clutching her hand-knitted sweater tightly around her shivering shoulders, Lovey turned away from the arcade, blindly walking toward the shaded seating area near the architecture building’s rear exit. She sank onto a cold granite bench, her head burying into her hands as a quiet sob escaped her throat. The sheer weight of the absolute rejection felt entirely suffocating. "Tough break, artist." A low, smooth voice laced with calculating malice cut through the quiet of the alcove. Lovey blinked away her tears, rapidly snapping her head up to find Psych standing barely three feet away. He was leaning casually against a concrete pillar, a vint

The high-backed leather chairs in the executive conference room on the top floor of the administration building felt quite oppressive. Soft, late-morning light filtered through the arched stained-glass windows, casting a gentle glow on the polished mahogany table where the senior members of the university’s registry board sat in heavy silence. Dean Zalthorne sat at the head of the table, dressed in a sharp dark emerald suit, his silver-streaked beard carefully groomed. His fingers were interlaced as he assessed the young man at the opposite end with a look of intense, scholarly skepticism. Next to him, Dr. Ingrid Brei Bergman sat stiffly, her stance firm and statuesque in her structured slate-gray blazer. Her pale face remained emotionless, devoid of fear or recognition, appearing completely untouchable. Psych stood with his chest thrown out, a pristine leather folder gripped firmly in his right hand. A completely smug, venomous smile played on his sharp features. He had spent the

The polished chrome elevator of the luxury downtown high-rise climbed in near-silence, but inside the car, Celin’s chest felt as tight as a hyper-tension cable. The sudden, mandatory text message from her father, Aaron Ventura, had arrived barely an hour ago while she was finishing her line weights in the studio: Your mother and I are downstairs. We are coming up to review your domestic living standards before the final trusts clear.There had been no room for negotiation. No asking if they were busy."The secondary pillows in your wing are stored in the linen press, Celin," Ingrid said, her low, smooth voice cutting through the elevator’s quiet hum. She stood perfectly upright, wearing a simple silk blouse and structured trousers, her dark hair pinned back with its signature, severe geometric precision. To an outsider, she looked like an impenetrable wall of cold composure. But as she reached down, her long fingers discreetly but firmly squeezed Celin's hand, her thumb tracing a slow