Chapter 223

Penny Anderson stood by the office door, nervously twisting the hem of her blouse. On her first day at work, she was already facing a crisis. Beads of sweat formed on her forehead.

"Miss Evans, I'll go find you a driver right away."

Wendy Evans waved her hand impatiently. "Hurry up. Adrian is waiting to see the wedding dress photos."

Penny bit her lip and stepped out. She didn’t know anyone in the company—where was she supposed to find a male driver?

"Maybe... I could call you a chauffeur service?"

Wendy sneered. "Then what’s the point of having you here?"

A sudden knock interrupted them.

Penny cracked the door open, confused. Outside stood a woman in a floral sundress. Her delicate features were like a painting, and she dangled a set of car keys from her fingers.

"You dropped these outside my door."

Penny frantically checked her pockets, her heart sinking. If she’d lost those keys with the Maybach logo, her job would’ve been over.

"Thank you so much!"

The woman smiled faintly and turned to leave.

"Wait!" Wendy suddenly rushed forward, her gaze sharp as a blade as it raked over the woman’s face. "Have we met before?"

Stella Valentine studied the bespectacled girl in front of her. So this was Adrian Roland’s fiancée? Compared to all the glamorous women from his past, she was... painfully ordinary.

"I just returned from abroad."

Wendy pressed, "Are you sure we’ve never met?"

Stella tucked the keys into Penny’s hand. "Keep them in your inner pocket. They won’t fall out there."

Penny suddenly grabbed her wrist. "Miss, could you do me a favor?"

"What is it?"

"Your husband... could he drive Miss Evans to her bridal fitting? I can’t find a male driver anywhere..."

Stella’s eyes dimmed. "My husband... passed away three years ago."

The air froze.

But Wendy kept staring at Stella’s face. She’d definitely seen it before—in Adrian’s wallet, on that old photo trimmed down to the size of a palm.

"Can you drive?" Wendy asked abruptly.

Stella arched a brow. "Yes."

"Then take me there."

Stella scoffed. "Why should I?"

"I..." Wendy faltered, then clenched her jaw. "Consider it... a favor for my fiancé?"

At the word "fiancé," Stella’s fingers trembled slightly. She snatched the keys. "Let’s go. We’re wasting time."

In the underground parking lot, Stella walked straight to the Maybach. She moved with the familiarity of someone returning home.

As the engine started, Wendy suddenly asked, "How did your husband die?"

"Car accident." Stella kept her eyes on the road. "A truck hit him head-on."

In the rearview mirror, Wendy’s face turned deathly pale.

When the car stopped in front of the bridal boutique, Wendy bolted out as if fleeing. She finally remembered—on the back of that photo, there had been a handwritten note: "Stella’s 20th birthday."

And the girl in the picture, wearing that same floral sundress, had been smiling at her.