Shirley Thorne stared at the words on the screen, the corners of her mouth turning up unconsciously.
She could just imagine the look on Ethan Grant's face as he said it—utterly cold, frosty, and devoid of warmth.
He was probably wearing his gold-rimmed glasses, a white shirt, a red tie, and crisply pressed dress pants. He'd be sitting ramrod straight in his high-tech office, radiating an unapproachable aura.
'Still, a man like Ethan Grant gives me a great sense of security,' she thought. 'If he says ten minutes, it will probably only take ten minutes.'
No longer disheartened by her wealth-flaunting venture being cut short, Shirley Thorne asked the manager for a chair and started interacting with the netizens.
The interaction mostly consisted of trading insults with the trolls.
[This woman has obviously had plastic surgery. She's so pale she looks like a monster!]
