C51 Burning Blood

Charlotte Lau gazed at Westley, her eyes devoid of any hint of panic, as if he wasn't even touching her hand.

"Does it feel good?" Charlotte asked, her smile teasing.

"It's very smooth," Westley affirmed with a nod.

Suppressing the impulse to hit him, Charlotte continued, "So, do you think I might sue you for harassment?"

"I don't think you would," he replied confidently.

Westley withdrew his hand, content, and unabashedly proclaimed, "Boss Powell, you're so beautiful, I just couldn't resist."

He even lifted his hand to his nose and sniffed it.

Charlotte's brow furrowed slightly, and she let out a soft huff.

She had never encountered someone so brazen.

Could he truly be a Half-step Grandmaster?

He seemed more like a sleazy Grandmaster.

Noticing her subtle reaction, Westley inwardly sneered.

Clearly, she hadn't mastered the art of concealing her emotions.

If she had, Charlotte would be truly formidable.

After all, it's easier to handle someone with weaknesses.

"Was that you at the door earlier?" Charlotte suddenly inquired.

"Yes! Boss Powell, you have sharp eyes," Westley replied, vigorously nodding.

"To think that the Golden Palace, just a modest shrine, could draw someone like you—I never imagined," Charlotte said with a radiant smile.

"A Half-step Grandmaster?" Westley feigned ignorance.

Charlotte chose not to call him out, instead expressing her gratitude. "Thank you for what you did earlier."

"Thank me for what?" Westley asked with a wide grin.

"Rashawn is good in many ways, but he's too impulsive. If he had actually made a move, the situation might have been beyond repair."

Charlotte spoke earnestly, "So, I'm truly thankful that you stepped in to divert the anger."

"Oh, that incident," Westley said, scratching his head nonchalantly. "I didn't overthink it. I just found those two guys unbearably arrogant."

"They have their reasons to be proud," Charlotte remarked.

"And what of it?" Westley challenged, unwilling to concede.

Their gazes locked.

They were probing each other!

Suddenly, Charlotte burst into laughter. "As a Half-step Grandmaster, you can certainly afford to disregard those two."

"I've already told you, I'm no Half-Step Grandmaster. Just an ordinary guy looking to broaden my horizons and maybe make a little money," Westley said with a chuckle.

Crafty little fox!

Charlotte silently cursed to herself, yet her smile remained unchanged.

She spoke softly, "Well then, I hope you have a pleasant evening."

"Absolutely."

Westley nodded, thinking to himself, "It'd be even better with your company."

"Sorry, but I must be going now."

Charlotte said, then turned to leave.

"There's something I'm not sure whether I should mention," Westley suddenly interjected.

Charlotte paused, turned back, and asked, "What is it?"

"You can't please everyone, nor can you make everyone happy. I personally find Rashawn's approach to life much more authentic."

With that, Westley walked confidently toward his reserved room.

Charlotte felt as if her heart had been struck by a hammer.

She stood there, her body quivering slightly, her eyes welling up with tears as a wave of sorrow and helplessness overwhelmed her.

For all the years since his death, this was the first time someone had truly understood her.

And this person had known her for merely two or three hours.

Indeed, running a place like this was no easy feat for a woman.

If it weren't for the sake of Derrick's name, why would she flit around like a socialite, mingling with men day in and day out?

Everyone saw her shine, but who could see her loneliness?

She took a deep breath, pushing down the sadness, and turned back around.

Watching Westley's retreating figure, she whispered to herself, "He's truly terrifying."

Westley arrived at the number ten private room arranged by Rashawn.

Once inside, he realized Rashawn had indeed treated him like a VIP.

The room's location was excellent, offering a clear view of everything happening inside the central stage's iron cage.

The room's decor was lavish, complete with leather seating, fine red wine, premium cigarettes, and an assortment of snacks.

At the front, there was a touchscreen computer.

As Westley pondered the extravagance, a young waitress entered the room.

The waitress had the poise and elegance of a flight attendant, standing tall with sparkling eyes and a bright smile, setting her apart from the usual club attendants.

"Good evening, sir. My name is Brianna, your dedicated attendant for private room number 10. It's a pleasure to serve you," she said, her fingers interlaced as she offered a slight bow.

"Exclusive attendant?" Westley was visibly puzzled.

What was this about?

"Indeed, as a Platinum member of the Golden Palace, you're entitled to exclusive services. Whatever you require, I'm here to fulfill it," Brianna replied, her smile unwavering.

"Any requirements?" Westley's interest was piqued.

"Yes, any," she affirmed with a nod.

"Does that include... special services?" Westley asked with a mischievous grin.

"Special services?" Brianna's mind seemed to race to a place of embarrassment, her cheeks flushing as she became visibly uncomfortable.

She bit her lip, hesitating before responding, "I apologize, sir. We run a respectable establishment and do not offer those kinds of services."

"Do I look like someone who'd be that superficial?" Westley cut her off, adopting a more serious tone, "I'm talking about special services like enjoying hotpot and conversation."

Hearing this, Brianna's embarrassment deepened.

How could I have misjudged such a respectable guest?

I've completely misconstrued his intentions; my thoughts were so inappropriate.

"We can certainly provide those services, sir," Brianna said, bowing again.

Her attire was quite revealing on the upper half, and as she leaned forward, it naturally drew attention to her chest. Westley felt a warmth spread through him.

Feeling parched, he quickly asked, "Do you have any milk here?"

Brianna paused, taken aback by the unusual request.

He wants milk?

"Yes, sir, we do have milk," she responded promptly.

Brianna swiftly retrieved a carton of premium milk from the fridge and handed it to Westley. He took a sip, the cool liquid tempering the warmth within him, and then inquired, "When does the Cage Fighting Competition start?"

Glancing at the clock, Brianna smiled and informed him, "Sir, it's about to begin."

No sooner had she spoken than the lights dimmed. A thrilling drumbeat erupted, its explosive rhythm pulsing through the air like a wave crashing against the eardrums of the audience.

The battle commenced!