Ji Chicheng spoke again, and after finishing his words, with a slight lift of his eyes, the waiter standing a few meters away immediately understood and came over with three bottles.
His unhurried tone, filled with irony, felt like his hand had viciously grasped at Anning's heart.
For a moment, the pain nearly suffocated her, and the blush on her face could not conceal her current paleness. Her bright, almond-shaped eyes slightly widened as she looked at the man across from her.
His deep eyes also stared at her unblinkingly, shimmering with a hint of cold, mocking amusement.
Anning's breath trembled slightly. She tried to hold it in, nearly unable to restrain herself, and hurriedly shifted her gaze from Ji Chicheng's face to the three bottles of alcohol that the waiter had just brought over.
A glance was enough to tell that they were all spirits.
Such strong spirits—not to mention three bottles—even three glasses would probably leave her unconscious.
