Daisy Delacroix นิยาย & เรื่องราว

Daisy tried to remain calm, collecting her thoughts before responding. "In truth, I have had an issue involving the police," Daisy admitted, maintaining eye contact with Axel. "I don't want to delve into the details, but I had a previous encounter with a police officer that resulted in unresolved misunderstandings. So, when I saw the police approaching, I felt fear, and I couldn't think of anything else but running."

Daisy’s POV I looked at myself in the mirror, feeling a mix of nerves and excitement. I was wearing a short black gown Liam had picked out for me. The gown was open at the back, with silver chains forming several "U" shapes across the space. The sleeves were slightly wider at the wrists, adding a touch of elegance. It wasn’t just about showing skin. I loved the dress because Liam chose it for me. That alone made it special. Every time the cool air touched my back, I imagined it was his fingers brushing against my skin.

“You! The girl in blue—come here!” Daphne Morgan froze mid-step, clearly startled. “M-Miss Quinn?” “Have you seen Alexander?” Daisy’s tone was clipped, cold. “Speak up.” Daphne hesitated, glancing between us. “I-I saw him earlier… speaking with a model, I think.” The color drained from Daisy’s face before it flared scarlet with outrage. “Unacceptable. Which model?” Daphne stammered, “I-I didn’t catch her name—”

“I still wish to see a picture of my mother.” Daisy paused, her expression softening with a hint of regret. “There are no pictures of her. She never allowed it. No one outside of this island knew what she looked like.” Anne stared at Daisy, her heart once again heavy with disappointment. She couldn’t shake the feeling of emptiness that came with the answers that she was getting. “Why?” Anne asked. Daisy glanced at her thoughtfully before answering. “She wanted to remain mysterious,” she said. “But we do have a portrait of her which painted by the late King Archie De Luca, her sworn brother and also Prince Amir’s father. It’s from when she was just a teenager.”

he urges. “I don’t have time. Just tell me,” I demand, eager. This is the moment I’ve been waiting for, the exact instant when I find out whether that pretty girl is just a normal, attractive person or someone hiding behind a beautiful face. “Daisy is eighteen years old. Her last name is Esteban. She’s been raised by her mother. They’ve been out of the country for eight years since her father got into trouble with some young girl on a New York street…”

I finished. Daisy sat across from me. She hadn’t moved from her position—knees drawn up, arms around them, watching me with an expression I’d seen a hundred times across a hundred late-night kitchen tables. She was quiet for long enough that I could hear the tap drip twice. “If Chloe were premature and locked in a room,” Daisy said plainly, “you wouldn’t stop to consider who her father was sleeping with. You’d go.”