"Indeed she's a woman spoilt by Michael Gordon!"
Alya Larson sneered coldly, her bloodthirsty smile mixed with chilling frost.
"Yes, being spoilt by a man is certainly better than not having any man willing to spoil you at all, isn't it?" So much beating around the bush and still no point made, she really had no patience, "Alya Larson, if you have something to say, say it quickly. If not, get lost!"
She really thought she could come here and play psychological games? How naive!
As soon as Ivy Aretha finished her words, she signaled to someone beside her. Her gesture was clear—if Alya didn't speak up, they would simply drag her out!
Alya Larson smiled faintly upon seeing this. This woman indeed had the air of a born lady. That posture, even her, with her innately imposing presence, couldn't emulate such a free and noble demeanor. With just one gesture, she made her, a young lady who grew up in luxury, seem like a woman as lowly as dust!
