Fated love: the unwanted bride-Chapter 929 - Sylvan Cheney Doesnt Answer Her Calls
Chapter 929: Chapter 929 Sylvan Cheney Doesn’t Answer Her Calls
Chapter 929 -929 Sylvan Cheney Doesn’t Answer Her Calls
For nearly three months, there had been no contact, and she wasn’t quite sure how to make this call.
Their lives had returned to their respective paths.
Jasmine Yale sat for a long time, the phone screen turning black then on again, before turning black once more.
Finally, she pressed the dial button.
Her heart pounded nonstop, thumping loudly, as if it would jump out of her throat.
A wave of emotions spread through her body for no reason.
She hadn’t expected, on the first try, not to get through.
It was 6:30 PM, and it had already grown dark, with the city’s street lights all lit up, creating a neon glow.
A few minutes later, she called for the second time.
Again, no one answered.
Had she been blocked? Or had he changed his number?
Jasmine sat uneasily on the chair, not sure what the situation was.
Five minutes later, she dialed again, the third attempt.
This time, the call connected, and from the other end came the sound of a noisy restaurant, complete with piano music.
“Hello.”
“This is Jasmine Yale.”
Sylvan Cheney’s voice was as usual, cool, deep, sexy with a touch of huskiness and a distant coldness.
There was no response on the other end.
Jasmine thought perhaps he didn’t remember her and quickly added, “I didn’t mean anything by calling you. Are you busy? I wanted to meet with you.”
“No time.”
“Hello…”
The call had already been disconnected.
Jasmine was stunned, a blank expression lingering in her eyes, taking a long time to regain her composure.
Her heart was filled with an indescribable sensation that seeped into her limbs, like poison soaking into the marrow.
If it wasn’t for some things she wanted to ask him for clarity, she wouldn’t have called him again.
Nearly three months without contact, and suddenly reaching out again, it was inevitable that he would overthink.
Did he think she wanted to pester him? Or was she after a breakup fee? Or playing hard to get?
Jasmine looked down at the photo on the table, lost and unsure of what to do.
Her mind flashed back to three months ago, in the cave, the words that Yolanda Fern had said to her.
Every word and sentence struck her like a hammer, pounding in her head.
She could distrust Yolanda, but she couldn’t doubt the photo that had fallen accidentally.
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Yet, Sylvan didn’t answer her calls.
She needed to clear these matters up before she left the country.
…
On Saturday morning, she called Sylvan Cheney again.
She knew that Sylvan didn’t have the habit of sleeping in late and would always get up early in the morning.
At half past eight, not too early or late, she made the call.
“Mr. Cheney.”
“…”
“Mr. Cheney, it’s Saturday. Do you have some time? I’d like to see you. I have something to tell you.”
“What do you want to say to me, huh?” Sylvan said, his tone impatient.
“Have you been to Willow Wave City?”
He laughed coldly on the other end, “Jasmine Yale, I don’t have the time to play guessing games with you.”
Without another word, Sylvan hung up the phone again.
Jasmine held the phone in frustration; he had no patience for her anymore.
She decided to go to the Cheney Residence and wait for him; she was determined to get answers to these questions.
It was obvious that Sylvan knew everything.
She picked out a dark blue knee-length dress, slung her bag over her shoulder, and left the house.
The weather was hot; spring seemed to have been skipped entirely. She hadn’t walked far before she began to sweat.
The night before, she had called Butler Santana, and she knew he had moved back from the villa.
He was now living at the Cheney Residence.
Jasmine hailed a cab and headed straight for the Cheney Residence.
Everything there was as familiar to her as ever, the desolation of winter replaced by the lushness of spring.
The sun shone brightly overhead, almost too glaring to bear.
She raised her arm to shield her eyes from the sunlight as she stood at the gate of the Cheney Residence.
