She Was Never Just a Pretty Face novel Chapter 22

Hilda slowly turned her head.

She saw Harrell. He stood at the entrance, wearing a light grey collared knit shirt paired with dark charcoal slacks, his jacket draped casually over his arm. A few stray strands of dark hair fell across his forehead, and gold-rimmed glasses shielded his eyes. He looked refined and aristocratic.

Compared to Luther's corporate sharpness, Harrell dressed with a distinct old money elegance.

Yet both men were equally dazzling and prominent.

Harrell walked over.

He leaned against the railing, gazing out at the Alpha City skyline.

After a moment, he turned his head to look at Hilda. Her eyes were downcast, her eyelashes thick and gorgeous, her nose sculpted to perfection. Harrell was used to being surrounded by beautiful women; he had dated two or three top-tier actresses. But Hilda was even more striking, radiant and effortlessly stunning without a hint of artificiality.

The night breeze swept past, scattering the man's words—

"I heard you two got back together?"

"Moved back in with each other?"

...

Hilda was slightly surprised at first.

But she quickly let it go.

Harrell was Luther's cousin; it wasn't strange that he knew.

She didn't want to reveal too much, offering a serene smile against the wind. "Does this look like a reconciliation to you? Luther and I hit a dead end a long time ago. Right now, this is just the dying gasp of our relationship."

Harrell stared intently at her face.

A person's visage often reflects their experiences.

Hilda was fundamentally different from who she had been a few years ago.

She had been beautiful back then, but now there was a new depth to her—a mature, alluring charm that men found incredibly captivating. Just earlier, he had noticed Yorick staring at her. Yorick used to dislike Hilda, often speaking of her with mild contempt whenever her name came up.

The two of them chatted casually about business.

Just then, a familiar voice drifted out from the private room.

Hilda frowned slightly, but before she could dwell on it, Yorick slid the door open and called out to Harrell, "Mr. and Mrs. Whitman are here. They want to see you, yet here you are, hiding out and chatting."

His gaze shifted back and forth between Harrell and Hilda.

It had to be said, men truly understood men.

A group of childhood friends.

They knew each other inside out.

Harrell gave a lazy smile. "I don't feel like seeing him."

Yorick suddenly realized something.

In the past, getting Harrell to come out was a monumental task. Tonight, he assumed it was because of Jolie's influence, but now he saw the truth. When he had walked in, the way Harrell was looking at Hilda could only be described as pure tenderness. As a man, how could Yorick not understand?

Hilda really was gorgeous.

It was a damn shame Luther married her just to leave her out in the cold.

Since the Whitmans had tracked them down here, Harrell couldn't exactly throw their face back at them. The three of them returned to the private room together, but the moment they walked in, the atmosphere froze.

Hilda stared at the wealthy couple.

—Mr. Whitman was the very man who had sexually assaulted her.

Clearly, the Whitmans had spotted her too.

Mr. Whitman had a guilty conscience, his expression looking awkwardly strained.

But what she didn't realize was that if Mr. Whitman hadn't pulled some heavy strings, someone of his low net worth would have never been allowed into this private gathering. Who was friends with him? Luther certainly had no such friends.

None of the people present had ever seen Luther this furious.

For a moment, they all froze in place.

Harrell was the only one who truly understood the underlying reason.

That day, he had run into Hilda at the bus stop.

She had a slap mark on her face and had clearly been crying. Thinking back on it now, everything made perfect sense.

Harrell gently patted Hilda's shoulder, a silent reassurance. "Go back with Luther..."

He then turned to Luther. "I'll handle things here. Take Hilda home."

Harrell's intervention firmly set the tone.

Mrs. Whitman's face was as pale as paper.

Before she could even react, Harrell grabbed the back of her head and forcefully slammed her face into the carpet. His voice was unnervingly gentle. "This carpet is quite expensive, and cleaning it is such a hassle. Your tongue seemed pretty agile just a second ago, didn't it?"

Mrs. Whitman was dragged across the rug.

The ensuing scene wasn't suitable for polite company.

Yorick arranged for everyone to clear out.

As he left, he shot Harrell a lingering look—

Did Luther realize that best friends were usually the first to steal your wife?

Tsk. The sheer intimacy in how Harrell stepped in for her... so deliberate.