CHAPTER 146: CHAPTER 146: JUST LIKE WHEN WE FIRST MET

The makeup artist also heard the whispers over there, her hand paused, and she instinctively glanced at Vera Sheridan in the mirror.

Her exquisite eyes were clear and calm, as if those idle gossip were just a breeze past her ears.

Everyone knew that this former Kane Group lady was the beloved muse of the Capital Circle’s big shot, Second Master Grant, Noah Grant’s cherished "white moonlight."

Now seeing her reaction to hearing the name "Vivian Langdon," it seems there’s nothing between them.

"Wow! The corridor outside is full of flower baskets for Ms. Sheridan! I took a glance, so many names of bigshots from the Capital Circle!" At this moment, a girl exclaimed with envy.

Then, a young man in theater work clothes poked his head in, "Ms. Vera Sheridan, could you sign for the flower baskets? They’re all over the corridor, and you need to confirm it with a signature!"

The makeup artist hurriedly made way.

Vera Sheridan stood up, the White Swan costume highlighting her slender figure.

She casually wrapped a light jacket over her shoulders and walked lightly toward the door.

There was no trace of her former limp.

A year ago, her foot injury had just fully healed, and since then, she has been in closed, almost obsessive "devil" training to return to the stage.

The rich fragrance of flowers filled the corridor.

Two rows of eye-catching, enormous flower baskets lined up neatly along the foot of the wall, like soldiers in formation.

Vera’s lips curled slightly as her gaze swept across the names on the congratulatory cards: Old Madam Grant, Professor Donovan, Noah Grant, Owen Sheridan, Maeve, Nathan Grant, Milo Hale... and Jasper Crowe... Vera’s brows furrowed lightly.

Just then, a delivery person, sweating profusely, carried in another oversized flower basket and carefully placed it at the end.

Ninety-nine fresh white roses, flown in, extravagantly arranged, without a card or signature.

Vera gave a faint glance, signed, and then said to the staff beside her, "Please throw away this last basket, thank you. For the rest, help load them into the car and deliver to my place."

The staff was momentarily stunned, and by the time he came to his senses, Vera had already reached the door.

He called out to her retreating figure, "Okay, Ms. Sheridan."

Then he subconsciously glanced at that solitary large flower basket.

The National Grand Theater, brightly lit, every seat occupied.

The ballet star Vera Sheridan, silent for so long, chose to return after her injuries, debuting with "Swan Lake."

People came seeking renown.

In the front row, Maeve Holloway and Owen Sheridan were already seated; not far off at the VIP seats, Old Madam Grant and Nathan Grant had also arrived.

At this moment, a slight stir came from the entrance, causing many heads to turn in that direction.

The man was tall, dressed in a dark suit, highlighting his broad shoulders and long legs.

His stride was steady, carrying an inherent imposing aura.

A face with distinct contours, a straight nose bridge, his eyes calm, scanning the crowd with a sense of aloofness from long-held power.

Most recognized him, the Capital Circle’s Second Master Grant, Noah Grant.

"Noah, over here!"

A bright and pleasant female voice rang out, tinged with a hint of delight.

Following the sound, people saw, not far from Old Madam Grant’s seat, a young lady elegantly standing, smiling and waving.

She had a slender, long figure, clearly with a dancer’s background from years of training, dressed in a well-tailored ivory ensemble, poised and graceful, none other than Vivian Langdon, the famed ballet principal of the Langdon Family’s heiress.

Noah Grant saw Vivian Langdon, the sister of his longtime family friend Leon Langdon, also the recent matchmaking project of his mother, Ms. Morgan.

He showed no visible emotion, merely giving a faint nod in Vivian’s direction, considered a response.

His gaze then moved past her, landing steadily on Old Madam Grant, and he walked directly over.

Nathan Grant, quick-witted, immediately stood up with a smile, "Second Brother’s here, sit here, next to Grandma."

As he spoke, he deftly vacated the seat beside Old Madam Grant, naturally settling into the originally vacant seat beside Vivian Langdon.

Noah Grant said nothing more, sitting down beside Old Madam Grant, who patted his hand with a gentle smile.

Vivian Langdon also resumed her seat, still elegantly poised, though her eyes couldn’t help but drift toward Noah’s direction.

At eight-thirty, the classic "Swan Lake" overture began, soft and soothing.

Suddenly, a spotlight pierced the darkness, hitting precisely at the center of the stage.

In the beam stood a quiet, white silhouette.

Instantly, the entire venue was so silent that one could hear breathing, countless gazes involuntarily focusing on her slender right ankle.

She gradually placed her tiptoes lightly on the floor, rising steadily.

Then she danced gracefully, her movements lively and emotions full.

In the best-view private box on the second floor, in the interplay of lights and shadows, a figure sat silently like a mountain.

The man, in a well-fit dark suit, sat upright, his skin exuding a cold white hue.

The newly grown short hair was clipped neat and tidy, accentuating his tight jawline and hard contours.

His hands rested on the wide velvet sofa armrests, with the mechanical wristwatch reflecting cold light.

Beside him, Jasper Crowe lounged lazily in the sofa, his long legs crossed, his gaze falling on Ian Kane, who had just returned from Norheim.

Having spent a year there, managing the natural gas project in Norheim, after such a long silence, the oppressive aura of his long-held position hadn’t diminished in the slightest.

Jasper Crowe followed his gaze toward the stage, a slight smile curling his lips.

Nine years ago, it was also he who first brought Ian Kane here to watch a performance.

Back then, it was fashionable for the young masters in the circle to pursue girls from the ballet troupe.

It was here that Ian Kane fell in love at first sight with Vera Sheridan on stage, thus beginning a six-year "hunt."

Whenever Vera had a performance, whether domestically or abroad, he would surely attend in person and send flower baskets.

The music suddenly became passionate!

Vera’s right foot steadily stood on tiptoe, her whole body like a wound-up top, spinning rapidly.

She started her signature 32 fouettés!

At 28, she now seemed rejuvenated, full of youthful vitality and strength, dazzlingly captivating.

The entire venue burst into thunderous applause, cheers echoing loudly.

In the second floor box, Ian Kane watched this scene, the surging emotion suddenly welling up in his heart, just as it had when he first saw her from the audience years ago.

Downstairs, Noah Grant’s intense gaze was unyielding, firmly locking onto the radiant figure on stage, a contented curve repeatedly lifting his lips.

As the song ended, applause thundered again, lingering long.

Under the spotlight, Vera stood gracefully at the center of the stage, her chest slightly heaving, fine beads of sweat glistening on her forehead under the lights.

She slightly raised her chin, looking at the full audience, her whole being surged with warm blood, full of emotion.

She, Vera Sheridan, had finally returned to the place she belonged.

After a while, she bent for an elegant bow, then her figure disappeared into the night.

...

Backstage, the quiet corridor, Vera walked toward her dressing room, a faint sensation of soreness emanating from her right ankle.

She frowned slightly, her steps gradually slowing down.

Just then...

"Vera!"

A low male voice broke the silence of the corridor, emanating from behind.

At the corner, Ian Kane, halted in his pursuit, his deep gaze tightly locked on her white silhouette, his Adam’s apple quivering, the corners of his eyes tinged with red.

Vera turned around, slightly startled, and then, she walked towards him.