Still trembling, still pretending.

James Black couldn’t be bothered to expose Jane Sampson’s addiction to pretense anymore; after all, once her hair was dry, there would be no escaping.

During the 20 minutes that James Black was drying her hair, Jane’s mind was constantly whirring, but only one thing was being considered.

And that was, how should she escape later?

However, by the time James Black had turned off the hair dryer, she still hadn’t thought of a plan.

While James Black was cleaning up the hairdryer cord, Jane looked at him, tentatively tugged at his arm, and then said, "It’s very late, why don’t we rest now?"

James glanced at the hand pulling on his arm and said softly, "Let go."

Seeing that Jane did not move, James sneered and said, "It’s only a little past eleven. Even if you lay in the bed, it’s highly unlikely you’ll close your eyes and sleep obediently."

As his wife, James knew her well.

After putting away the hair dryer and seeing that Jane still wasn’t letting go, he simply picked her up and, upon reaching the study, placed her on a chair.

Then he laid a notebook and pen in front of her and said, "A person admits their wrongs with the right attitude. If you don’t write 300 words tonight, don’t think about sleeping."

Having said that, James sat down opposite Jane, both separated by a desk. He picked up a book to read while Jane clutched a pen and glared at him.

"My face won’t provide content for you to copy, so staring at me is useless." As he flipped through his book, James prodded her, "Three hundred words. If even one word is half-hearted, you’ll start over from the first word."

Peter Gingery had not lied to her; James Black was indeed that difficult.

Jane let out a resigned sigh, shaking her pen listlessly, "I should have never left my mobile phone in the bedroom. I should have brought it out and secretly asked Peter Gingery to write it for me; all I would’ve needed to do was copy it."

Such a mistake, but now it was clearly impossible to go back and fetch it.

Jane’s sighs were continuous in his ears, and although James was reading, he would occasionally lift his gaze to glance at Jane.

The first time he looked up at her, her hands were clutching the back of her head, scratching it like a monkey, and her small face was contorted into one of bitter melon, clearly revealing her inner turmoil.

James flipped a few pages of his book, and the second time he looked up at her, she had changed positions.

One hand was propping her chin while the other twirled the pen in her hand, dropping it on the desk with a clatter every few seconds, picking it up without moving her gaze, and looking increasingly distressed.

After spinning the pen for a while, she suddenly stopped, wrote a few words on the paper, then sighed again and continued the earlier position, twirling the pen.

James lowered his head and went back to his book. After reading another ten pages, he looked up at the woman opposite him again.

By this time, Jane had stopped spinning her pen and was chewing on the pen tip, leaning on the back of her chair, looking utterly despondent.

James’s fingers lightly tapped on the desktop.

When Jane heard the sound, she looked down at the man opposite, and meeting his stern gaze, she inexplicably understood the message in his eyes, even though not a single word had been exchanged.

She swiftly placed the pen she had been chewing back on the table, then straightened her sitting position, blinking at James.