"What money! I don't know what money!"
Ye Cheng's eyes flickered wildly, and whenever money was mentioned, he'd act like a mad dog, barking at the top of his lungs.
Nan Jiaojiao didn't waste words with him; she cracked her whip, which coiled around his neck. She raised her arm to pull up while stepping down on the back of his neck with her foot.
The pain was nearly bone-separating, and Ye Cheng immediately couldn't bear it. Trembling, he pointed toward the sofa: "It's there."
There lay a denim canvas bag, so dirty its original color was indiscernible, with the opening fraying at the seams.
Nan Jiaojiao pulled out the money and scanned it briefly. Her face turned cold. "It's short."
Ye Cheng jolted with fear. He had just gotten up from the ground and had hidden himself by the foot of the bed. Her glance swept over him like countless nails were being hammered into his flesh, and he bore the pain without daring to move.
