Chapter 437: Sloane Bennett Glared at Her Phone's Spiderweb-cracked Screen

"Ugh, what terrible luck." Sloane Bennett 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 Sloane Bennett need to make the first call?

Julian Cross's expression darkened.

Sloane 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 sports car 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?" Sloane 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, Phoebe Ward leaned against the railing, thoroughly entertained.

Mrs. Palmer hesitated. "Miss Bennett seems rather..."

"Exactly as she should be." Phoebe 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. Palmer choked on her spit. "Madam!"

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

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

"What else?"

"Why would he—"

"..." Clara 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?

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

Clara: "Rain check~"

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

"Remember to block Julian— Hello?"

The line had disconnected.

Hopefully she'd heard that last part.