Stella sneered, her voice dripping with disdain. “You think too highly of him.”
The secretary, panicking, clutched Stella’s arm. “I beg you, please! If you leave now, I’ll die a terrible death…”
Stella shrugged her off, her expression cold. “That has nothing to do with me.” The secretary had shown no mercy to her before, so why should she now? She had no reason to be moved by her pleas.
As Stella took a step towards the door, a male voice called out, distinctively displeased. “Why aren’t you accompanying Mr. Ford? Where are you going?”
Stella ignored the man’s words, picking up her pace. The man stood up, his face hardening as he prepared to follow her. However, as he moved, something seemed to cross his mind. His gaze flicked towards Weston.
Weston remained seated, his tall figure partially hidden in the shadows. His expensive dress pants hugged his long legs, and the faint glow of his cigarette illuminated his fingers. Though out of place in this setting, he commanded the room as if he owned it. He was the ruler here, and everyone knew it.
When the man saw Weston’s silence, he hesitated. Realizing he could do nothing without Weston’s approval, he turned his attention back to the secretary. “Since you got the wrong person…” he began, shifting his focus.
Instead of chasing after Stella, he grabbed the secretary by her hair, lifting her off the ground and onto the couch. “Since you let her go, we’ve got no one else to drink with. What about you?”
The secretary, clearly terrified, began trembling. “No, I can’t… I can’t hold my liquor…”
The man laughed loudly, his voice mocking. “You work here, and you dare say you can’t hold your liquor? Smith’s very happy with you. He always praises you for being his best drinking partner!”
He emphasized the word “partner,” and his tone made the meaning clear.
The men around them burst into lewd laughter, and the air in the room grew thick with a sense of danger. Stella felt nauseous at the oppressive atmosphere. She wanted to push the door open and leave, but the piteous pleas from the secretary held her in place.
The men became louder and rowdier, urging the secretary to strip and dance. “Take it off!” one of them shouted. “Hurry up! Dance like you mean it!”
Stella’s hand tightened on the door handle. Her mind raced—this wasn’t her problem. She could leave and forget all about it. The secretary had brought this on herself. Even if she ended up in a terrible situation, it wasn’t Stella’s responsibility.
But the secretary’s desperate sobs cut through her resolve. “Gentlemen, please, show me some mercy! Please spare me! I really can’t… I’m almost forty years old…”
The secretary’s voice cracked as she continued, growing more frantic. “It’s my fault this time for not arranging things well. I was wrong. I deserve a beating!” She slapped herself a couple of times, then pointed to a wine glass. “Why don’t I punish myself by downing a few? I’ll drink however much you want me to. I beg you, I have children at home…”
One of the men lost his patience and threw his wine glass to the floor. The loud crash echoed in the room, sending the secretary into a fit of trembling silence.
Throughout the entire exchange, Weston remained distant, his eyes cold and indifferent as he observed the scene, arms crossed. He made no move to intervene, content to let the drama unfold. He was a mere spectator in this debacle.
As time dragged on, the secretary couldn’t hold back her sobs any longer. In a broken voice, she began to unbutton her outer vest, her hands shaking. The men, unimpressed, began to mock her loudly.
“She’s an old hen indeed!” one of them sneered. Laughter followed, and one of the men even used the tip of his shoe to lift the secretary’s shirt.
Stella felt bile rise in her throat. Her vision blurred with disgust and anger. She closed her eyes for a moment, then turned around sharply. Without hesitation, she strode toward Weston, her voice steady and demanding.
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