C43 Respect

You need to spend two million just to upgrade to a platinum card!

That two-million-dollar threshold is steep!

Westley hadn't anticipated this obstacle; he was looking to get in and make some money, but the platinum card requirement was a major roadblock.

Marlon noticed Westley's grave expression and thought he was dissatisfied with his response.

He hastened to add, "However, it's not set in stone. The Golden Palace hosts a monthly event where you can win a platinum customer card for free. Today's the sixteenth, which is the day of the event."

"Oh? Go on, give me the details," Westley said, his interest piqued.

Marlon didn't dare withhold any information and promptly explained the specifics of the event.

The rule was straightforward.

It was a test of strength.

Whoever had the most power, the best arm-wrestling skills, and the last laugh would secure the platinum customer card.

It was simple and rough.

This little game was also a favorite among the members of Westley's old Hidden Dragon Squad.

"Then let's go," Westley said.

He reached out, grabbed Marlon by the collar, and hoisted him up effortlessly.

It was only then that Marlon realized the extent of Westley's personal strength.

He didn't dare resist and let Westley carry him off like a small chicken.

"You know what to say when we reach the door, right?" Westley inquired.

"I do," Marlon nodded vigorously, like a pecking chick.

"And you two?"

Westley turned to the two security guards sprawled on the ground.

"We know," they said, nodding frantically.

Westley straightened Marlon's collar, then slung an arm around his shoulder and pushed the door open with warm enthusiasm.

As the door swung open, the two security guards instinctively turned their heads.

Their eyes bulged when they saw the marks on Marlon's face.

What happened here?

Hadn't they agreed that Westley was the one who was supposed to be taught a lesson?

Why was Westley unscathed while Marlon was the one injured?

Moreover, the two colleagues who followed were bleeding from their noses, clearly having suffered significant injuries.

"What are you staring at? I just moved too aggressively and hurt myself," Marlon said irritably.

The two security guards quickly bowed their heads, though internally they were grumbling nonstop.

We hadn't uttered a word, yet we got an earful.

Did he really hurt himself with those exaggerated gestures? Treating them like children, perhaps?

Despite their inner gripes, they certainly weren't foolish enough to confront him about it.

Marlon turned, extended his hand in a welcoming gesture, and beamed at Westley, "Mr. Jimenez, right this way, please."

Westley chuckled to himself.

Marlon certainly had a knack for treachery.

They reached the end of the corridor, where Marlon dismissed the other four guards before personally escorting Westley to a spot in the northeast corner of the hall.

It resembled an oversized booth, bustling with people eagerly waiting.

A bombshell bunny girl in a bikini, microphone in hand, was explaining the arm wrestling competition rules.

Several young men on the floor whistled, itching to test their strength.

The Golden Palace's platinum card was a true status symbol.

Flaunting such a card in public would undoubtedly earn you admiration.

After all, not everyone can afford to spend two million a year at the Golden Palace.

Observing the throng, Westley stroked his chin thoughtfully.

Setting aside other considerations, Charlotte was a mastermind in business, adept at tapping into the psyche of her clientele.

She had turned a mere platinum card into a draw.

Issuing one each month not only lured people to try their luck but also subtly boosted spending—a stroke of marketing genius.

"Mr. Jimenez, please have a seat. I'll just go and notify the registration official," Marlon said with a bow.

"Sure, go ahead," Westley replied, settling into his seat.

Marlon, nursing his injured face, approached the registrar and murmured a few words.

He quickly returned, brandishing a number plate.

"Mr. Jimenez, here's your number plate, number fourteen."

Marlon explained, "I've checked—fourteen contestants in the arm wrestling match. It's a single-elimination tournament; lose once, and you're out."

"Mm-hmm." Westley nodded.

"Anything else you need me to do?" Marlon's demeanor was exceedingly humble.

"No, that's all. You can get back to work," Westley dismissed him with a wave of his hand.

Marlon, visibly relieved, quickly scurried away.

Westley remained seated in silence, awaiting the start of the strength competition.

At the top floor's most opulent suite in the Golden Palace, Charlotte lounged on the sofa, cradling a glass with half-filled red wine.

The crimson liquid complemented her red attire, creating an intriguing allure.

Her long, fair legs shone, the high slit revealing curves that could send any man's pulse racing and adrenaline soaring.

She was the epitome of a temptress.

With her left hand, Charlotte gracefully picked up a dart from beside her.

With an effortless flick, the dart whizzed through the air and embedded itself in the bullseye of a target ten meters away.

Her face remained impassive as she reached for another dart.

Just then, the door burst open.

Her gaze sharpened, and with a flick of her wrist, she sent another dart flying toward the newcomer.

The visitor was quick to react, snatching a silver fruit plate from nearby to shield himself.

The dart buried itself halfway into the plate.

"You've gotten 0.01 seconds faster," Charlotte remarked nonchalantly, sipping her wine.

Her voice was like a gentle spring breeze, tickling, soft, and slightly teasing.

"Ms. Charlotte, if I hadn't improved my reflexes, I'd have been dead many times over by now."

The man set down the fruit plate, revealing a ruggedly handsome face.

He was tall and striking, with chiseled features.

But his natural stoicism lent him an air of reserve.

"Rashawn, what's the rush? You didn't even remember to knock," Charlotte said, idly gazing at her bare legs.

She wasn't the least bit concerned about her revealing pose.

After all, Rashawn was her most trusted confidant.

"Ms. Charlotte, someone intriguing has arrived at the Golden Palace," Rashawn said, looking down.

"Oh?"

Charlotte Lau's interest was piqued, and she propped herself up to sit halfway.

Rashawn stepped forward and handed her the tablet. "Ms. Charlotte, take a look at this. It's the surveillance footage."

Charlotte tapped the screen lightly and began watching.

Both clips featured Westley.

In one, Westley was seen taking down Mr. Haris and his crew in a private room.

In the other, Westley was laying out Marlon and several other security guards.

After viewing the clips, Charlotte's expression remained unchanged as she reached for a pack of women's cigarettes.

She lit one up and inhaled deeply.

"Rashawn, do you think he's here to stir up trouble?" Charlotte inquired, her eyes seductive and shimmering.

"It doesn't seem like it," Rashawn replied, shaking his head woodenly.

"Then go check out his background."

"Sure thing!"

With that, Rashawn turned mechanically and left.

"Just remember! If he's a friend, show him courtesy. But if he's an enemy..." Charlotte leaned back, her laughter tinkling as she emphasized, "Then we must show him even greater courtesy!"

That smile of hers.

It was indeed a smile that could captivate anyone.