Presley mulled it over for a while before voicing the doubts in his heart, "You're not here for a cure?"
"Why would I ask you for a cure?" Mirabella flicked an imaginary speck of dust off her sleeve, as if she just realized what he meant, then added, "Oh, you mean the medicine for James's secret ailment, right?"
Presley pursed his lips, now more confused about Mirabella's intentions, and for some reason, her manner of speaking irked him even more.
It felt as though things were slipping out of his control.
Just then, the ringtone from Presley's cell phone in his pocket cut through the moment, making his nerves tighten for a split second.
It was Dane calling.
Presley glanced at the screen and answered the call.
"Vice President, I have news that James isn't seriously ill, and his chronic condition hasn't relapsed," Dane's grave voice came through the phone.
Presley's eyes widened, and his grip on the phone unconsciously tightened. "Is that true?"
If James wasn't sick, then spreading rumors about his illness... was it a ploy to draw someone out?
"It's very likely."
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