"How did the discussion go?"
Ya Tianxing asked each word deliberately.
The moment she looked up, Mo Shangjun was still holding chopsticks with white rice clamped between them. In the next instant, she caught sight of Ya Tianxing's demonically handsome face in her eye, sharp and angular like carved by a blade—especially those captivating deep-set eyes, profound as cold pools, that involuntarily made one's heart palpitate.
It seemed as though there was a response still echoing in her ears.
My instructor.
His voice was sexy and husky, each word striking a chord.
Mo Shangjun felt a moment of tinnitus.
After a pause, Mo Shangjun looked at Ya Tianxing, as if contemplating before saying, "I'm not quite sure what you mean. Should I answer 'not good,' or should I take the opportunity to put him down?"
Ya Tianxing was momentarily choked by her response.
Mo Shangjun was always on point—she could always clearly sense what the other person wanted to hear.
