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Chapter 2

Author: Centennial Brew
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.

The manager laughed nervously. "Oh, that's Mr. Turner's room. They haven't paid yet—Mr. Turner's group always runs a tab here."

This club was part of the Iverson empire, and the staff knew Shawn was supposed to be my future husband. To show their respect, they never charged him, instead adding his expenses to an account. Even his friends got the same treatment whenever they used his name.

I flicked the ash off my cigarette and looked at the manager's ingratiating smile. "Who gave him permission to run up tabs here? Are you planning to cover those bills yourself?"

The manager stared at me, dumbfounded. He blurted out, "Huh?"

"Have them settle all their previous tabs," I continued, pulling out my phone and showing Blair's picture. "Has she been here often?"

"Yes, several times," the manager replied cautiously, unsure of my intentions. "Everything was charged to Mr. Turner's account."

I stubbed out the cigarette and said, "Don't serve her anymore." When the manager hesitated, I added, "She's a high school student—is that going to be a problem?"

Blair was 19 years old and a college freshman. Such a bright and enviable age—at least for now. Without my financial support, though, I wondered how much she would have left to envy.

The manager quickly shook his head. "N-No problem at all."

Satisfied, I left the club, my heels clicking loudly against the floors. Sitting in the car, I leaned back as my phone started blowing up. I knew it was Shawn without looking.

When I ignored the calls, he switched to bombarding me with texts.

"Rowena, what's your problem?

"Come back and apologize now, and we can resolve this today.

"Looking for a fight?

"You think this is funny?

"Fine! Have it your way!

"Don't regret this!"

My driver caught my eye in the rearview mirror, asking where to go. As we crossed the bridge, I tossed the matching phone Shawn and I shared into the river.

"Let's go buy a new phone," I said.

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