Brandon Stevens, a business tycoon who owns the largest business empire in the country has the good looks, immeasurable wealth, and the rock hard body that could melt the hearts of any woman. Running his company in a territorial fashion and having a...
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[Hannah's POV]
My name's Hannah Johnson. I grew up with my father who was recently charged for murder. For the first time in my life, I was alone.Before, Wilson always offered his shoulder for me to lean on. I was a spoiled rich kid with little encounter with other people. To sum it all up, I knew nothing about life except how to depend on him. And now that he's gone, surely the toughest obstacles of life were waiting ahead of me.
I never knew any relative from both sides of my family. He seldom talked about my mother except for a few things, like, she and dad were never in a relationship and had barely knew each other when I was conceived.
"But the outcome came out to be the most precious jewel I've ever had and so I've never regretted any second of that night." He had sincerely said once teary-eyed and I knew he loved me more than anything else.
I spent all my life knowing only him, my professors, and Mr. Collins.Even my educators were restricted to have any conversation with me except related to the lessons. I was prohibited to go out of the house and meet people. My curiosity could never be doused with dad's excuses such as my safety. I doubted if people were capable of causing danger to another man's life. Dad seemed to think that way.
I didn't exactly know where his over-protectiveness was coming from. It was a little over-the-top. Not that I wasn't grateful but I really couldn't scrape away curious thoughts of the possibility of secrets behind all these strange actions and prohibitions.
I was in his library. I flipped through one of dad's favorite classical book. The cover old and peeling in some parts, the spine bared, and the letters of the title in neat strokes before now rather nearly impossible to read. The pages thick but physically in state of wearing out from repetitive flipping. He must have red it a hundred times.
I glanced about, my eyes glimmering from unshed tears. I missed him. And my worries kept me restless.
The wooden ten feet shelves around dad's library probably held about a thousand or more books. Most of them were literary works of famous writers and illustrators, some were romance writings of Shakespeare and other renowned writers, others were biographies of famous remarkable men of the world who had done their part in history.
These were treasures to him and I treasured them too with all my heart. If there's one thing we both loved, it's enjoying the solitary of this library while focusing our attention on one of these books, a steaming coffee on the table, feet propped up on another chair, a smile curling our lips. I spent most of my time in this room with dad.
I sat down the cushioned seat, remembering the days we've spent together enjoying every page, every word, and every unexpected scene.Marveled at how the writers expertly twisted the events into something more interesting and the mere construction of words greatly impressed me. He, too. I smiled bleakly.
