Chapter 310

Adrian Klein knew Vincent Macmillan wasn't the gossiping type, but accidents could happen.

Once words escaped, they'd snowball uncontrollably.

The best solution was to end it here.

"What's your plan for this afternoon?" Vincent asked.

"Lab work."

"You're always so busy..."

Adrian grabbed his coat. "I'm heading out."

"Wait, what did you come back for?" Vincent pressed.

"Curiosity isn't always a virtue."

"..."

After Adrian left, Evelyn Langley took a short nap.

She needed to stay sharp for the afternoon's data analysis.

At exactly 2 PM, she woke up, splashed cold water on her face, and returned to her workstation.

Natalie Blanchet and other colleagues gradually trickled back.

"Evelyn, your face is so red. Heatstroke?" Natalie asked.

Evelyn touched her cheek instinctively. "Is it? Maybe it's the heat..."

Vincent chimed in, "The break room has AC."

"I forgot to turn it on today..."

"No wonder. Professor Klein looked flushed earlier too. Both of you heat-sensitive?"

Natalie giggled. "That dramatic? Evelyn, you're turning redder. Oliver, lower the AC..."

Evelyn: "..."

She secretly checked her reflection on her phone.

Completely normal!

......

Evening came as experiments concluded.

Evelyn left work on time, stopping by the supermarket.

The farmer's market had closed, leaving supermarkets the only option.

She carefully selected ingredients and prepared two dishes with soup at home.

Propping up her phone, she video-called William Langley while eating.

"Dad, still fussing over your flowers this late? Doesn't Mom mind?"

"She's racing against deadline. No time for me."

"Creative surge lately?" Evelyn raised an eyebrow.

"Peace with her editor means good mood; good mood means inspiration flows."

William suddenly lowered his voice. "Speaking of that editor—Penelope Ashcroft—no calls recently. Odd how she suddenly went quiet."

"Guess what?"

Evelyn played along. "What happened?"

"Found out she blocked all of Penelope's contacts!"

With their recent move, the editor couldn't track them down.

Evelyn chuckled. "That's so Mom."

At nearly fifty, Victoria Langley retained childlike whimsy under William's devotion.

Like when critics panned her work years ago, she rage-quit online—pure teenage tantrum.

"Dad," Evelyn turned serious, "keep an eye on Mom. No contact with Penelope."

Julian Roscente's referred editor had connected.

After reviewing Victoria's manuscript, Simon Croix called at 3 AM.

Evelyn answered half-asleep.

The "golden editor" of thriller novels—every title under him became bestsellers, every adaptation blockbusters.

He cared only for quality, not names.

After understanding Victoria's situation, he'd said just one thing...