Blair’s expression instantly froze.
Meanwhile, Shawn frowned and snapped, “Rowena!”
His tone carried a warning—a reprimand—as he added, “Can’t you speak nicely?”
I nodded. “I can.”
Shawn let out a scoff, exchanging a glance with the others. They all had the same smug, knowing look. They were used to seeing me lower my standards for Shawn, always bending over backward for him. In their eyes, I was nothing more than a pathetic, dependent shadow following him everywhere.
Shawn’s expression softened slightly as he asked, “Why are you here?”
“To give you a gift,” I replied.
Shawn’s face showed hints of impatience as he said, “Leave it and go.”
His confidence stemmed from the fact that for the past ten years, I had been giving him little presents every few days, and no matter how coldly he treated me, I never got angry—I just kept coming back with more gifts, supposedly due to my “deep love” for him.
Without hesitation, I raised my hand and slapped him hard across the face. The sharp crack of the slap cut through the dim lighting and loud music of the VIP room, surprisingly distinct.
Everyone froze as if someone had hit pause.
“Rowena Iverson!” Shawn roared in anger.
“Gift delivered, Mr. Turner. Until we meet again,” I replied with a sweet smile, waving at him before walking out in my high heels.
I did not stay to see their reactions. Instead, I went to find the club manager, who looked at me nervously and asked, “Ms. Iverson, what brings you here?”
I pulled out his cigarettes and lighter from his pocket, lit one, and asked, “Has Room 666 settled their bill?”
I already knew it had not. Shawn and his friends never settled their bill until they were ready to leave.
