She Became Rich After Divorce

Chapter 672: Don't you want to say something to me?

Yvonne hesitated once again. Layne had instructed her not to tell Cheyenne about this matter. With that in mind, she suddenly covered her own lips with her hand and prepared to leave. A muffled voice sounded in front of Cheyenne.

"Mmm... No, I can't tell you."

Cheyenne grabbed her sleeve, wide-eyed, with her watery eyes looking at Yvonne. Her gaze was pitiful, like a small deer in the forest, ethereal and helpless.

She pleaded, "Yvonne, Yvonne, please, tell me the reason. I really want to know how my mother died."

She had long suspected that her grandfather, a highly skilled doctor, would never let her mother die from childbirth. The medical skills of the Edwards family could easily save a pregnant woman from excessive bleeding.

Yvonne turned her head and saw the shimmering brightness in Cheyenne's eyes. She let out a long sigh and answered her question.

"I only know that your father is not George. Years ago, Onistead formed a team to visit and study in Jostrana. After they returned, an unprecedented plague broke out. In order to find the source of the plague, they entered the Dead Forest together."

"After coming out of the Dead Forest, Selah became pregnant. But she suddenly said she didn't want to stay in Onistead anymore, so Layne took her back to Akloit."Belongs to (N)ôvel/Drama.Org.

"Soon after, news came that she gave birth, but... she also disappeared forever."

Calculating the time from Selah's departure to Akloit to giving birth to Cheyenne, she should have conceived Cheyenne when she returned from the Dead Forest.

The Dead Forest!

Cheyenne couldn't be more familiar with it. It was filled with corpses, graves, and the ever-present deadly miasma. It was home to terrifying demons that could take lives at any moment.

What did her mother experience inside?

Cheyenne's voice trembled involuntarily as a new wave of confusion surfaced, still shrouded in her mind. No wonder Nora and Sean had some resemblance to George in their features, but she couldn't find a trace of George in her own face.

No wonder George didn't care about her.

No wonder Malaya always called her a "bastard" behind her back. It turns out she was the outsider.

No, that's not right!

This villa belonged to her. The real outsiders should be George and his family.

"Yvonne, do you know who my biological father is?"

Upon mentioning this, Yvonne shook her head in confusion and softly replied, "I truly don't know. Selah never mentioned a word about your biological father after she returned." "But she often held a necklace and looked at it, lost in thought for a long time."

A necklace?

Cheyenne immediately straightened herself up, revealing her slender and fair legs with well-proportioned muscles. Tied around her delicate ankle was a red rope.

She lowered her head and untied the anklet, revealing a peculiar pattern on the pendant of the anklet. She handed the anklet to Yvonne eagerly and asked, "Is it this one?" Yvonne's eyes lit up. She took the anklet, carefully examined it in her hand for a while, and gave her a definite answer.

"Yes, that's it. But it seemed to be a necklace back then."

"I found it too eye-catching, so I turned it into an anklet."

Deep down, Cheyenne had a vague intuition that this necklace was related to her biological father. When the wild man saw the anklet on her ankle in the Dead Forest, he seemed very excited.

Could it be that he knew her father?

If only she had kept that wild man. Now he had vanished in the air. Where could she find him?

In a luxuriously decorated room of

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the Crown Hotel, a room filled with understated grandeur, a melodious yet somewhat suppressed piano sound echoed. The moment Cheyenne stepped in after pushing the door, she saw a man sitting elegantly in front of the black and

white piano keys.

He was completely immersed in the deep tones of the music, unaware of Cheyenne entering the room.

If it were any other time, he would have noticed long ago.

When the melody reached Cheyenne's ears, she felt it suffocating. It evoked thoughts of hell, the end of the world, and caused immense mental and emotional agony.

A gust of cold wind blew in from outside the window, making a "whoosh" sound as it swirled the plain white lace curtains, creating a chaotic dance within the room. Through the thin veil, a blurry figure of a slender young man could be seen. He was wearing a black V-neck sweater paired with off-white suit trousers.

In line with his usual habit, he enjoyed walking barefoot on the ground.

Just like the great musician Beethoven, who continued to love music despite being deaf, he would bite on a wooden stick while playing the piano to sense the vibrations and determine the pitch.

During Benson's three years of blindness, he would practice "auditory positioning" by taking off his shoes and standing on the cold floor whenever he played a piece. This was because sound travels fastest through solids.

Cheyenne's gaze fell upon his pretty feet. Despite being tall, Benson had a delicate and slight frame.

His ankles protruded with bones, and his fair skin accentuated the prominent veins on the top of his feet, beautifully contrasting with the off-white trousers, resembling a work of art.

However, staying like this for too long could lead to rheumatism, as the cold starts from the feet, especially in the current winter season with moist air and damp floors...

If it were in the past, Cheyenne would have definitely walked into the room to fetch his slippers and tell him not to play the piano barefoot on the floor again.

However, this time she suppressed her discomfort and averted her gaze.

She walked lightly into the room, intending to tidy up her belongings, even though there wasn't much for her to pack.

Everything she was wearing was prepared by Benson, and except for a few calligraphic paintings, the rest of the room was furnished by him. Cheyenne didn't take anything, only packed her scroll painting.

As she stepped out of the room, the music outside the door also happened to come to a stop. Echoes lingered for a while.

Benson's hands lay flat on the black and white piano keys, tiny beads of sweat forming on his forehead. His heart was beating faster than usual.

His heart was in turmoil.

That's why the piece he had just played didn't reach the level he usually practiced.

On the other side, Cheyenne had already reached the entrance, her hand grasping the doorknob, ready to open the door.

Then, a low and familiar voice sounded from behind, gentle as a spring breeze.

"Cheyenne, don't you want to say something to me?"