Playing dumb? Cheyenne was in no rush to make him confess. A faint smile played on her lips as the man grew increasingly uneasy, even attempting to flee. But instantly, she grabbed his shoulder and forced the glass to his mouth with her other hand.

“If you’re going to offer me a drink,” she said coolly, “it’s only fair you have some too.”

“You… you bitch!”

Caught off guard, he was forced to take a few sips of wine, the red liquid trickling down his chin and staining his shirt. The color resembled blood, dyeing the shirt pink. Cheyenne released him, produced a handkerchief, and meticulously wiped her hands, even her nails, as if he were something unclean.

“Keep insulting me, and I’ll make you swallow the glass shards. Believe it or not?”

“You dare!”

He felt humiliated by her unexpected attack. He considered her just a woman, easily manageable. Reaching for her mask, he sneered, “You bitch, let me see your face. How dare you trick me?”

Before his hand reached her, however, two security guards in black uniforms forcibly dragged him away.

“Let go of me! What are you doing?” he shouted defiantly.

From behind the guards, a tall man in a dark blue suit and fox mask approached. His refined figure and air of nobility commanded attention. He strode to Cheyenne’s side.

His voice was incredibly gentle. “Baby, you were scared, weren’t you? My fault for being late. Don’t be angry, okay?”

Cheyenne looked up. Through the mask, she recognized him instantly. Goosebumps erupted as she rolled her eyes. “Omari, please speak normally. Otherwise, I might snap.”

“Don’t call me Omari. But if you call me ‘honey,’ I’ll let you snap me.”

“Dream on!” she sneered.

He sighed. “Cheyenne, you’re heartless. It’s a small request. I heard you got divorced, and I’m ready to propose.”

Returning to the matter at hand—how dare that man drug her drink?

“Castrate him and throw him in the nightclub,” Omari ordered his bodyguards. His gentle demeanor vanished, replaced by a chilling coldness. The transformation was stark.

The man’s eyes widened. He tensed, stammering, “You… you dare! This is illegal!”

“Cheyenne, this man is amusing. I’ve lived nearly thirty years, and it’s the first time someone’s mentioned the law to me.” Omari Lara was an internationally renowned lawyer, handling earth-shattering cases. He’d never lost, possessing the ability to make wrong seem right. His fees were exorbitant, beyond the means of most. Even handling only one case a year, his wealth and status were unparalleled.

“The ignorant are fearless,” Cheyenne chuckled softly.

“Cheyenne, you’re pretty, so you’re right.”

“Wait, does my beauty justify what I said?” she hummed, unapologetically.

Omari smirked, putting his arm around her. “Of course. Even if you’re wrong, you’re right in my eyes.”

Here we go again! This lawyer loved teasing her. Cheyenne didn’t take it seriously; his words were often unreliable, even to her.

She shook off his arm and sat down. “Stop showing off your charm. The auction’s about to start.”

“Who says my charm can’t be spread? But only to you. If you don’t like it, we’ll forget it,” Omari said regretfully. He took her hand, leading her to the front row. “Why sit back there? You’re petite. Come, let’s sit together!”

The front three rows were inaccessible to mere money. Their occupants were high-society elites and powerful figures. As Omari effortlessly seated her, countless eyes watched with envy and surprise. Cheyenne had wanted to remain inconspicuous, but found herself in the spotlight. Well, with her mask, no one knew her. She might as well enjoy Mr. Lara’s glory.

As she sat, a voice laced with annoyance came from behind. “Kelvin, that’s my seat!”

Kelvin… Cheyenne stiffened. She didn’t turn but felt his cold gaze upon her.

He glanced briefly at Abbie. “Just switch seats.”

“Okay.” Abbie gathered her gown and sat next to Cheyenne, occasionally glancing at the woman in the red dress, with her slender legs, silver heels, and perfectly manicured toes. Jealousy flickered in her eyes.

Omari, sensing Cheyenne’s unease, noticed the man beside them. He took her hands, blowing on them warmly. The image was strikingly romantic.

“Okay… I’m not cold anymore,” Cheyenne whispered, fearing Kelvin’s recognition. She avoided his gaze.

“If you’re tired, rest your head on my shoulder,” Omari offered, still longing for the feel of her hand. Reluctantly, he withdrew his hand.

Abbie wondered, ‘Why are that woman’s hands and bracelet so familiar?’ but found no answer.