The pristine white lights shone on the diverse crowd, each person reflecting a different glow. Nia Mitchell wrinkled her small nose. If anyone had interviewed her right then, surrounded by a throng of socialites, about how she felt... She just wanted to scream at the sky; the mixed perfumes were too damn overpowering. One person’s perfume, another’s perfume—all mixed together. The combination was utterly vile! "’I see a friend I know. I’ll be back in a bit,’ Nia Mitchell said, awkwardly raising her wine glass before turning to make her escape. However, Phoebe Walker grabbed her wrist, her grip insistent and her manner overly familiar. "’Don’t go. Your friends are my friends. Why not invite her over so we can all chat together?’" Nia Mitchell was exasperated. Phoebe Walker’s tone today was enough to give anyone goosebumps. "’No, thank you. She doesn’t like strangers.’" Despite her protests, Phoebe Walker didn’t let go. Seeing this, Shirley Grant approached. "’I have to say, Phoebe Walker, you never change.’" Elegantly sipping her red wine, Shirley Grant slowly made her way over. She carried herself like a goddess who belonged in the spotlight, now benevolently gracing the mortal realm. ᴛʜɪs ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ ɪs ᴜᴘᴅᴀᴛᴇ ʙʏ 𝙣𝙤𝙫𝙚𝙡~𝙛𝙞𝙧𝙚~𝙣𝙚𝙩 Phoebe Walker hadn’t expected that after what happened on Friday, Shirley Grant would still have the audacity to confront her. This was getting interesting. Since when had Shirley Grant become so shameless? She had just heard that Shirley Grant arrived on Alan Morgan’s arm. "’Shirley Grant, where’s Alan?’" Indeed, Alan Morgan was Phoebe Walker’s only sharp weapon against Shirley Grant. "’He’s dealing with some persistent flies that have latched onto him. I don’t know why, but your banquet seems to have an exceptional number of them.’" The red wine cast a reflection on Shirley Grant’s lips, making them appear even more luscious. Amidst this bevy of beauties, her smile was particularly captivating. It just goes to show, everything is relative. At the company, Shirley Grant was always meticulous and professional. Who would have thought that at a banquet, she could also be so sophisticated and poised? "’Hmph, it can’t be helped. The grander the banquet, the more people there are trying to worm their way in,’ Phoebe Walker said, sounding rather resigned. She raised her glass and clinked it with Shirley Grant’s in mid-air. "’Still, I’m curious, Shirley Grant. How could Special Assistant Morgan bring you here?’" Alan Morgan wasn’t the type to lack female companionship. Shirley Grant was just a plaything Alan Morgan had tired of. What right did she have to stand so openly beside him on such an important occasion? "’What? Couldn’t snag the man you set your sights on, so you’re shifting targets now?’" Shirley Grant’s implication was clear. To put it bluntly: you couldn’t get Maxwell Peary, so now you’re trying for Alan Morgan. Phoebe Walker swirled the red wine in her glass. The smile on her heavily made-up face faltered, cracking slightly. "’Shirley Grant, perhaps the biggest difference between us is that you have to strip naked to crawl into the bed of a man I wouldn’t even deign to look at.’" Phoebe Walker hadn’t wanted to say such things at her own birthday banquet, but Shirley Grant had provoked her into it. She, Phoebe Walker, was born a favored daughter of heaven; she would not tolerate anyone’s slander or insubordination! A wave of fury washed over Shirley Grant. Without a second thought, she raised the unfinished glass of red wine in her hand and flung its contents.