Chapter 437

"Ugh, what terrible luck." Sophia Laurent glared at her phone's spiderweb-cracked screen, shaking her hand in irritation.

"Out with the old, in with the new." She carelessly curled her crimson lips. "The number's still good. Just need a new SIM card."

Men always contacted her first anyway.

Since when did Sophia Laurent need to make the first call?

Julian Roscente's expression darkened.

Sophia snatched back the ruined phone. "Touch my things again and I'll chop your hands off."

Her stilettos clicked sharply against the floor as she strode out without a backward glance.

Her Porsche was already waiting at the entrance.

Julian chased her into the courtyard. "That number's tacky! All eights? Let me get you a 666 repeating sequence instead!"

"Eights are unlucky?" Sophia nearly laughed in disbelief. "Are you brain-dead?"

"Ever heard 'seven means rising, eight means falling'? Or 'the eighteenth level of hell'?"

"Get lost!" She slammed the car door. The engine roared as she sped away.

Julian stomped his foot in frustration.

"Ungrateful! That's a collector's number people beg for!"

On the second-floor balcony, Penelope Ashcroft leaned against the railing, thoroughly entertained.

Mrs. Watson hesitated. "Miss Laurent seems rather..."

"Exactly as she should be." Penelope admired her fresh manicure. "Men are dogs. The harder they have to chase, the more obsessed they become."

"Think those socialites stand a chance? Too easy to catch."

She winked at the housekeeper. "Know what this is called?"

"...What?"

"Being a glutton for punishment."

Mrs. Watson choked on her spit. "Madam!"

"Just stating facts. His father was the same."

"I rather admire Vivian's temper..." Reminds me of my younger self.

Mrs. Watson: "..." Should I be hearing these aristocratic secrets?

......

On the phone, Evelyn Langley endured twenty minutes of her best friend's rant, peppered with frequent "idiot" and "moron."

"You think..." Evelyn suddenly interrupted, "...he might be jealous?"

"Jealous?" Sophia froze. "Over a phone?"

"What else?"

"Why would he—"

"..." Evelyn massaged her forehead. "Never mind."

This woman had dated enough men to field a soccer team. How was she suddenly clueless?

Had the queen player finally capsized?

Or had the femme fatale suddenly turned chaste?

Sophia tried for the nth time: "Sure you won't drink with me?"

Evelyn: "Rain check~"

"Fine. I'll post for company..."

"Remember to block Julian— Hello?"

The line had disconnected.

Hopefully she'd heard that last part.