Mr. Hawthorne, Your Wife Wants a Divorce Again-Chapter 864: My Beloved Muse

"You must have noticed too, there’s something missing from this painting." Hugo Sullivan turned his body slightly, so Ann Vaughn could see the painting more clearly, "If you don’t mind, could I paint you into it?"

"Me?" Ann Vaughn raised her eyebrows slightly, meeting Hugo Sullivan’s expectant gaze, and nodded. "Alright, if you’re not worried that my presence will ruin your painting."

Hugo Sullivan’s smile deepened, "How could it? You are my Muse."

Following his instructions, Ann Vaughn walked to the floor-to-ceiling window and turned to stand still, her silhouette blending with the scenery of the garden, the hem of her cream-apricot dress swaying in the wind, neither too ostentatious nor too faded.

Just right, as they say.

Hugo Sullivan raised his brush, the light in his eyes growing brighter, "Just like that, it’s perfect, thank you for your trouble."

"It’s nothing, happy to help."

Meanwhile, the sky above grew increasingly gloomy, as though dark clouds were bearing down, a storm was imminent.

Ann Vaughn looked at the weather, her delicate brows furrowing slightly, hoping it wouldn’t rain, otherwise, they might not be able to head into the city.

But as the storm approached, she couldn’t stop it.

Ann sighed internally, her gaze falling on the thorn bushes at a certain height from the window, curious about how these roses grew in such an environment?

After a long time, Ann Vaughn’s legs began to feel numb, and she couldn’t help but ask.

"Screenwriter Sullivan, are you done yet?"

Hugo Sullivan seemed not to hear her.

Ann Vaughn felt her calves increasingly unable to support her and was about to turn her head to ask him when suddenly she was pushed hard from behind the shoulder—

It happened so suddenly that Ann instinctively wanted to dodge, but her numbed legs became her greatest hindrance at that moment.

In the blink of an eye, she was like a kite with a broken string, stumbling into the thorn bushes below the window!

Crash—

The thicket was crushed, but soon stubbornly stood back up, the sharp thorns mercilessly tearing at Ann Vaughn’s fair, delicate skin, cruelly leaving deep marks.

A burning sting at her eyes, liquid seemed to be flowing down her cheeks, and every inch of skin screamed with pain...

Any move she made, the thorn bushes tightened around her as if they were alive, the sharp thorns continuously piercing deeper into her skin.

Ann’s eyes, hidden under her ink-black hair, widened in shock, struggling to look up at the spot from where she had fallen—

Through the blood-blurred vision, she saw Hugo Sullivan standing there with his paintbrush.

His handsome, gentle face was flushed with a shy red, his eyes emitting an almost fanatical glow, as if he were thrilled to the extreme, unsure how to suppress his joy.

Yet he wasn’t looking at Ann.

Instead, he was looking at the stained cream-apricot dress, ink-black hair, like a rag doll sprawled in the thorns... Hugo’s inspiration.

"Yes, that’s it, this is the broken beauty I wanted."

"Just like in my dreams."

"As expected from my beloved... Muse."

A chill ran up Ann Vaughn’s spine, suddenly, she understood.

However, it was already too late.

Cold raindrops fell on her bloodstained cheeks, the light in her unfocused eyes dimmed, and the increasing pain throughout her body couldn’t stop the consciousness she was about to lose.

Drip, drip.

A gentle rain began to fall from the sky.

The figure lying in the thorns gradually became still.

...

Meanwhile, on the outskirts of town.

Outside a dilapidated small building, two rows of black luxury cars were parked neatly.

Inside, the dim light barely illuminated a small area, unable to reveal the whole scene.

Faintly visible, a person stood by the window.

His posture was as straight as a pine, a spotless white uniform, the collar, cuffs, and edges lined with dark gold threads, his beautifully shaped hands encased in snow-white gloves, exuding an indescribable elegance.

As if he were a born aristocrat.

"Sir, this is the item you wanted, please take a look."

"Oh?" Warren Vance spoke leisurely, his glassy, dark red eyes sweeping across the open box the man presented, a smile tugging at his lips. "Not bad."

The man immediately rubbed his hands with a fawning expression, "Sir, about the items we agreed on..."

Before he could finish, something cold and hard pressed against the back of his head.

Realizing what it was, the man’s eyes widened in shock at Warren Vance’s lazy demeanor, his face paling as fear filled his eyes.

"Sir, sir, let’s talk this over, I’ve brought you what you wanted, you can’t do this to me—"

Sweetie, coiled around Warren Vance’s wrist, suddenly woke up, and Warren gently stroked its head, chuckling softly.

"Sweetie can finally have a new pet, I’m very pleased."

The "not bad" referred not to the goods, but the man himself.

The man swallowed in terror, his plea for mercy caught in his throat, slowly collapsing to the ground.

Revealing Quinn Bishop, who had been hidden behind him.

Warren Vance sighed lightly, the dark red in his eyes emitting a wicked light, "What a pity, sir hates deception the most."

"Sir, does this mean... the items in the box are all fake?" Quinn Bishop exclaimed in surprise, then took the items from the box.

It was a painting.

Anyone with some knowledge would recognize the painting’s name at a glance.

Yet even Quinn Bishop, an expert in authenticating fakes with a keen eye, couldn’t tell any difference between this counterfeit and the original.

Though fake, it was authentic enough to pass as real.

"Sir, could it be that this person didn’t realize the painting was fake and made a mistake?" Quinn Bishop said, concerned.

After all, not everyone could, like Sir, determine the authenticity of a famous painting at a glance.

Even he fell short.

Warren Vance turned around, his figure shrouded in darkness, accentuating his sickly pale skin, yet without the slightest hint of frailty, exuding unlimited allure.

He didn’t even glance at the body, stepping over it, leaving only a faint remark in the air.

"Ah, that’s truly unfortunate."

Quinn Bishop hurried to follow, maintaining a three-step distance from Warren Vance, respectfully reporting:

"Sir, Mr. Andre’s young heir is also in this town. Over an hour ago, he contacted me personally, saying he has the genuine item you want. Would you like to take a look?"

"He certainly knows how to cater to someone’s taste." Warren Vance sneered lightly, "Then let’s have a look, but if it doesn’t meet my expectations..."

Quinn Bishop felt a chill down his back and dared not answer.