"AH!"
Phoebe Walker was caught completely off guard when the wine was splashed on her. Although her evening gown was already red, the area soaked with red wine had turned a much deeper shade.
"Shirley Grant!" Phoebe Walker shrieked, instinctively flinging the contents of her own wine glass in retaliation.
However, Shirley Grant had been prepared and dodged it easily.
Seeing her attempt at revenge fail, Phoebe Walker grew even more enraged.
"Shirley Grant, are you insane?"
She glanced down frantically at her dress, a large section of the front now hideously stained.
"Let tell you, this dress cost 300,000! If you don’t pay for it, don’t even think about leaving this place!"
The commotion was significant, and many of the surrounding guests fell silent. A crowd quickly gathered, and a buzz of hushed conversations began. At such high-end banquets, these kinds of incidents were always the most entertaining. After every event, the idle chatter inevitably revolved around who had more plastic surgery—whose nose was straighter, whose eyes were bigger; who suffered a wardrobe malfunction without realizing it; who wore an utterly hideous outfit yet strutted around like a proud rooster, thinking they were stunning; or who tried to flirt with soone only to be arrogantly rebuffed. And so on, and so forth.
Today, who could have imagined that at Phoebe Walker’s own birthday banquet, she herself would have red wine thrown on her in public? And then, to top it off, she had started screaming and yelling on the spot, just like a shrew.
"Phoebe Walker," Shirley Grant said, slamming her glass down hard, her expression resolute. "For soone as reckless with their words as you, do you truly believe everyone will just suck up to you and tolerate your slander?"
Phoebe Walker was montarily stunned by her deanor but quickly recovered.
"Shirley Grant, let make this clear: I will make it impossible for you to survive in Capital Town! Go on, ask around! Find out how many people who’ve crossed , Phoebe Walker, have ever t a good end! I tried to advise you politely, but you wouldn’t listen. So don’t bla for disregarding any past collegiality between us!" Having said her piece, Phoebe Walker glared at the bodyguards nearby, her chest heaving with rage.
She had investigated Shirley Grant’s background long ago, Phoebe fud internally. Just an ordinary commoner. She had only tolerated Shirley Grant being on equal footing with her in the Secretary Departnt because she hadn’t been sure about her exact relationship with Alan Morgan. But things were different now. Just yesterday, she’d learned the truth: Shirley Grant had apparently stripped down and sold her body, only to be callously discarded once her benefactor had tired of her. HMPH. It was the only fitting end for such materialistic and vain won.
"Take her away!" Phoebe Walker commanded the bodyguards nearby. "Don’t let her leave until she pays for this dress!"
Four bodyguards imdiately stepped forward, preparing to seize Shirley Grant on Phoebe Walker’s order.
"What do you think you’re doing?"
Suddenly, a man’s voice, low, husky, and laced with danger, cut through the tension from behind them.
Everyone turned towards the sound. Alan Morgan stood there, dressed in a black suit, his face grim—an expression identical to Maxwell Peary’s when he was angered.
Phoebe Walker struggled to contain her rage, forcing what she believed to be her most elegant smile. "Special Assistant Morgan," she began, "I understand you’re stepping in only because you brought her here. But please, don’t think I’m disrespecting you by pursuing this." She shot a venomous glare at Shirley Grant, who remained standing nearby, and continued through gritted teeth, "She deliberately splashed red wine all over in front of so many people. I simply cannot let this slide!" Her ticulously applied makeup twisted with her contorted expression, making her look utterly hideous.
Hearing Phoebe Walker’s words, Alan Morgan turned to glance at Shirley Grant. His already dark expression grew even stormier.
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