Tilda was curious about who they were.

Lyndon, as if sensing her curiosity, leaned in and whispered, "The man is the owner of N.C-—Douglass Lawrence, and the one beside him is his wife."

Tilda's gaze sharpened. So this was Alex's boss?

Her focus shifted to the woman. "Isn't Mrs. Lawrence... a bit too young?" she murmured.

Lyndon smirked. "Douglass is on his second marriage. Rumor has it she was his mistress from the time she was twenty. After over a decade in the shadows, he finally divorced his first wife and made her his legitimate one," he explained.

A flicker of mockery crossed Tilda's eyes.

What an inspiring story, she thought dryly, amusement Laced with sarcasm.

The phrase "inspiring story" was, of course, ironic.

Tilda thought Douglass's wife had an uncanny ability to navigate scandal unscathed, untouched by years of public criticism.

Perhaps morality was only a burden for those with a conscience.

Homewreckers, on the other hand, seemed immune—Lacking both shame and boundaries.

Yet, they often emerged as the winners, leaving others wondering in disbelief.

Tilda's thoughts drifted to Rita.

If Rita held on to Lyndon long enough, would she eventually become his legitimate wife?

The thought unsettled Tilda.

She shifted slightly and, noticing Lyndon still holding her hand, gently pulled away.

Lyndon's gaze flickered toward her, sharp and questioning.

Unwilling to speak with him, Tilda raised her tea cup to her lips, pretending to sip from it.

Across the room, Alex was ushering Douglass and his wife to the main table, treating them with the utmost deference. Tilda observed the way he poured tea, every movement calculated. "Alex seems to place great importance on his boss's arrival," she remarked.

Lyndon glanced over but said nothing. Instead, his attention returned to her. "Are you bored?" he asked. Tilda tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "Not at all."

Lyndon's dark eyes lingered on her. Without a word, he reached for the tea mug and refilled her cup.

Today, he seemed particularly attentive-gentle, even. Yet, rather than comfort, it filled Tilda with unease. Was he trying to pacify her?

Did he want her to let Rita go? To stop making trouble?

The tea in the cup was hot, just like the frustration simmering in her chest.