Chapter 52

Maxwell’s lips were drawing into a tight line. “Rosemary, you’ve got some gall heading there!”

Rosemary let out a light chuckle. “What’s there to fear? It’s just sharing a table.”

It seemed to her that Maxwell was practically inviting scorn upon himself; she couldn’t be bothered

to explain.

During their exchange, the occupants at Martin’s table noticed them. They were all familiar faces,

and upon glancing over, Martin could tell Maxwell was discussing business, so he chose not to

intrude.

Maxwell stared at Rosemary emotionlessly, his command resonating with a steely undertone, “Hold

my arm.”

Rosemary, slightly annoyed, suppressed her voice, “It’s just a simple meal, not a banquet. Is such

formal arm-holding really necessary?”

This constant display felt like an orchestrated farce, overly theatrical for her taste.

Maxwell returned her retort with an indifferent stare. “You’re paid to deal with trouble for me.

Decisions on what should or shouldn’t be done fall to me, your employer. Do you believe you have

the right to refuse?”

Alright, money dictated action; who hasn’t encountered a harsh employer!

With a silent acquiescence, Rosemary complied, taking his arm. A waiter approached and led them

to a secluded private room reserved for the dining.

After they were seated, Mrs. Ferber, intending to become closer with Rosemary, stared at her face

and complimented, “Mrs. Templeton’s skin is really something—so fair and tender. Even from this

close, your pores are invisible.”

While her words were flattering, they weren’t lies. Rosemary’s skin was indeed good, fair with that

healthy glow, and a fine texture, something many women could only dream of.

Rosemary’s hope of being a mere ornament falling through, and she had to tuck away her phone.

Summoning her spirit, she responded with a gracious smile, “Mrs. Ferber, you’re too kind with your

words. It’s really not as extraordinary as you make it seem.”

Seeing Rosemary’s easy-going disposition and lack of arrogance—which she could well afford as

Mrs. Templeton, Mrs. Ferber grew even fonder of her.

“Do you mind sharing how you take care of your skin?”

Rosemary’s routine involved basic skincare in the morning and at night, with maybe a beauty clinic

visit twice a month. It must be natural, after all, her mother had great skin too.

But saying that could probably make her sound narcissist, so she shared Yolanda’s skincare routine

with Mrs. Ferber instead.

As they were having an engaging conversation, a soft “thud” abruptly interrupted the moment as an

empty cup was set before her. She looked up, catching a glimpse of the man’s retreating slender

fingers.

Rosemary turned to the culprit, Maxwell. After a brief survey of the table, she grasped his intent and

leaned in to whisper, “If you want tea, it’s best to request it from the waiter.”

The waiter was standing just outside, where a simple knock on the table would have readily called

them over.

Maxwell’s voice was deep, “Then why did I spend ten million to bring you here? I could have easily

spent three thousand to employ a waiter with a keener eye than yours.”

Leaning closer to Maxwell, she spoke through clenched teeth, “My role in this deal is to be an

ornamental vase, sitting here to elevate your image.”

It wasn’t that she couldn’t pour the tea, but she needed to make a stand, lest Maxwell, empowered

by the ten million, push her boundaries.

Maxwell said nothing, his eyes intensely scrutinizing the woman, “A vase? You’re selling yourself

short.”

Not a vase? Was that an indirect compliment to her abilities?

Even though Maxwell often couldn’t say anything nice, considering his compliment earlier,

Rosemary thought it wouldn’t hurt to pour water for him.

Before she could translate her thoughts into action, the man beside her remarked with a tone of

indifference, “Ready for dinner or bed? skilled at foot massages?”

Rosemary froze. She wasn’t considering which criteria she met; her mind was consumed with the

singular desire to make Maxwell’s head explode!

“Making such a fuss over pouring water, if you wanna be ornamental, you might need a few more

years of training. Want to get paid? The just do your job well. Even a six-year-old gets that; do you

really need to be taught?”

Despite seething with anger, Rosemary bit her tongue, acutely aware of the business partners

watching and the potential fallout from a public altercation going viral. For the sake of her

reputation, she maintained her composure.

“Maxwell, if you ever go bankrupt, you’d better find a remote forest for your grave, or else your

ashes will sooner or later be scattered by someone.”

“My ashes are none of your concern. Now, pour the water.”

With visible irritation, Rosemary aggressively tilted the teapot, pouring his water.

Mr. Ferber took in the scene, particularly Rosemary’s impatience with Maxwell. His eyes flickered

with thought.

Rosemary ignored Maxwell for the rest of the meal. Yet, undeterred and ever unabashed, he

demanded, “Pass the food.”

She inhaled deeply, silently chanting “three hundred million” three times in her mind, as ten million

no longer enough to calm her.

She deliberately chose a few dishes Maxwell disliked and served them to him. Catching his eye,

she offered a feigned, saccharine smile in response.

Meanwhile, Mrs. Ferber watched them enviously. “Rosemary, you and Mr. Templeton seem so

close.”

Rosemary thought, are you kidding me, Mrs. Ferber?

Stockholm syndrome is a no-go—it could literally be the death of someone.

On the other hand, Maxwell and Mr. Ferber were deep in conversation, discussing business,

policies, and future developments. Rosemary wasn’t paying close attention, but she had to admit,

despite Mr. Ferber’s unappealing appearance and discomforting presence, he was quite

knowledgeable.

After sitting idly by for a while, she decided to excuse herself to the restroom.

Upon returning, she found Mr. Ferber waiting by the door.

His beer belly seemed to be slightly more rotund post-meal. Having knocked back a few, he was

stumbling around, and Rosemary thought he was about to keel over at any second.

Mr. Ferber’s eyes were practically glued to Rosemary. “Mrs. Templeton, what a fortuitous

encounter.”

Offering a lukewarm smile, Rosemary replied, “Mr. Ferber, you seem preoccupied, I’ll leave you to

it.”

However, as she attempted to bypass him, Mr. Ferber blocked her way and, seizing her hand, he

murmured, “Mrs. Templeton, you have a lovely scent.”