Fated love: the unwanted bride
Chapter 1332: Jasmine Yale, You Are Drunk

Chapter 1332: Chapter 1332: Jasmine Yale, You Are Drunk

The sunlight filtered through the window, casting a lazy afternoon glow as Sweet Kitty lounged on the windowsill.

She sat in a chair, watching the store and reading a book while her little daughter sat beside her, playing with the cat.

Her daughter naturally resembled her, surely having big eyes and long lashes, very cute and adorable.

But hopefully she wouldn’t inherit her tendency to cry.

He had always known what she wanted.

Because he understood so clearly, he was certain he couldn’t give it to her.

Since he couldn’t provide, why not let her go?

Jasmine Yale fell silent for a few seconds, her small head resting against his chest, as if asking him or herself, "With whom should I have one..."

Sylvan Cheney didn’t respond.

Jasmine Yale’s mind was somewhat fuzzy—such a scenario, she had never even considered it.

Sylvan Cheney rubbed her head. "Tired?"

"Not tired."

"Oh, still want to talk to me?"

"Do you want to talk to me?" Jasmine Yale didn’t answer him, she countered.

"Get some rest early, you need to catch a plane tomorrow."

"Oh." Her eyes showed a layer of light disappointment, "This is you telling me you don’t want to talk anymore, asking me to stop talking, right?"

"If you must interpret it that way, I can’t help it."

"Why have you nothing to say to me? This way, how are you going to teach Little Chale? Little Chale isn’t like you; he talks a lot..." Jasmine Yale was somewhat drunk, her mind foggy, thinking of the little guy. The little guy’s shadow flitted through her mind, "like me."

The last two words, she hesitated for a long time before adding.

Chale Cheney was like her.

Their personalities were similar.

"Jasmine Yale, you’re drunk."

"I’m not." she denied.

"Don’t forget to pick things up from the Cheney Residence tomorrow, pick up all the documents, don’t be careless." Sylvan Cheney advised.

"Mm." She nodded her head obediently.

In the past when he went on business trips, she would like to advise him—

"Did you pack enough clothes? Don’t catch cold."

"This trip is long; take some medicine with you, just in case of food or water issues. You’ll have to entertain, inevitably involving alcohol."

"If you can’t sleep, you can call me, I’m here!"

Word by word, she patiently advised him.

He was never impatient, listening to her nagging, never contradicting.

Jasmine Yale lifted her head from his embrace and saw him rub his temples, blinking his eyes as he asked, "Headache?"

"No, just a bit sleepy."

"Feeling unwell?"

"A bit," Sylvan Cheney replied lightly.

"Then you go sleep on my bed, I’ll play games." Jasmine Yale smiled sweetly, her expression innocent, her eyes clear and pure.

She hopped down from his lap.

Sylvan Cheney didn’t say anything, walking towards her bed: "I’ll rest for half an hour, wake me up after thirty minutes."

"Okay." Jasmine Yale agreed.

Sylvan Cheney found a comfortable position leaning on the bed, rubbed his forehead, and closed his eyes, his brow slightly furrowed.

Jasmine Yale didn’t speak anymore; she sat on the sofa, picking up her unfinished glass of red wine and sipped.

The red wine was aromatic and strong.

She silently played with her phone, occasionally glancing up at him.

His complexion wasn’t good, very pale, devoid of color, fatigue colored between his brows, it was unknown how long it had been since he had a peaceful night’s sleep.

Sometimes when she looked at him, she would forget to look away.

Outside the window, the night was thick.

Five minutes later.

Jasmine Yale stood up, walked over to him, and gently called, "Mr. Cheney."

No response.

"Sylvan Cheney."

Still no response.