Chapter 498

• Joaquin Latham’s face was ghostly pale. His voice trembled, thin and weak.
• At nine-thirty in the morning, golden sunlight slipped through the shade of the trees. Leaves rustled in the breeze. Zayla Steele’s hair stirred, a whisper of motion. She wore a nude blouse and a white knee-length skirt. Her skin was fair, and her eyes shimmered like clear water—so lovely she looked like she’d just stepped out of a painting.
• Zayla lifted her bag and cast a cool glance inside, her tone edged with dry mockery. “Whether this place changed or not, it’s still the one I hate most. Did you forget? You locked me up here. I was in a wheelchair when the fire burned me alive.”