"I say, Second Young Master Loman, please don't make it difficult for me. The Old Sir has given an order. Without his personal approval, no one dares to sell you a plane ticket!"
Ronald Loman looked at the slightly balding man in front of him with red eyes, grabbed his collar as if he was picking up a chick, "Very well, Uncle Morton, you should know what kind of person I, Ronald Loman, am. Today, whether you sell it or not, you will sell it."
The middle-aged man's face was all scrunched up, obviously very troubled, yet he had to force himself to continue speaking, "Second Young Master, it's really not that I don't want to sell it to you... Your status is already special... Now the Old Sir has personally given such an order, please don't make it difficult for me..."
Ronald Loman's face was dark, his gaze sharp as a knife, with no hint of the cheeky smile he once had. Instead, he was like an unsheathed sharp sword.
