The Last Time I Cried Your Name novel Chapter 530

After asking, Franco's gaze dropped from her eyes to her lips.

Her lips parted slightly. Lowering her eyes to watch the colorful halos cast by the bottles, she reached her hand toward the alcohol.

The rule was to answer truthfully or take a drink...

"I don't want you anymore."

Her answer was flat and emotionless.

Her fingers only brushed against the glass bottle. The slight movement disrupted the halo of light, shattering its beauty.

Amid the slow ocean breeze, she thought she heard a laugh—a sound so hollow and crushed it felt like it came from the dirt.

She didn't look up, but from her peripheral vision, she saw Franco snatch up the bottle. A man so usually refined and dignified chugged the beer like a rowdy frat boy, draining the entire bottle in seconds.

The other rule of the game: if you were satisfied with their answer, you drink.

It wasn't that Franco was satisfied with her answer—it was that he had fully expected it. Deliberately torturing himself with that question had been one of his goals tonight.

Petty saw right through him but said nothing.

Franco's long fingers gripped the empty bottle before setting it heavily on the table.

Since he had finished his drink, it was her turn to ask.

So many questions from the past still tangled in her mind. She wanted the absolute truth for every single one.

Yet, as of today, some of those questions just didn't matter anymore. For instance, Laura. As Uncle Hans had put it, Laura was a nobody—someone who had never been worth Petty's anxiety.

Now that the blindfold had been ripped off and the exaggerated rumors fabricated by outsiders had crumbled, the things she used to worry about felt like a massive joke.

But there were still a few things she needed to clarify.

Tracing the rim of her bottle, as if finally making up her mind, she let out a soft breath. "When I was seven, were you the one who told Grandma to take me in from my relatives?"

Franco's eyes locked onto her face. Memories instantly flooded his mind, playing like a faded, yellowed photograph with worn edges.

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