In my previous life, I spent ten years stepping on a sewing machine in Boss Wen's novels, and my heart was colder than a butcher's knife.
Starting over, I looked at Boss Wen's news release about celebrating the return of the real heiress and his extravagant purchase of a whole street as a gift, and sneered.
Boss Wen called my phone with a voice that was two parts taunting, three parts cold, and five parts indifferent, saying, "I, Boss Wen, transfer the money."
I held Boss Wen's black card and lightly touched my red lips, saying, "Your bank account balance is insufficient. Please consider recharging."
