Sophie Sullivan straightened, her smile vanishing as she crossed her arms. She pursed her lips. "You old man, you have a truly peculiar temper."
"Thank you for the compliment," George Stanford chuckled.
Noticing Sophie Sullivan's face flush with anger, George Stanford glanced at Thomas Shannon, who stood behind her.
The man's handsome face was slightly somber. His pitch-black eyes were as calm and dark as the breakless ocean—deep, unfathomable, making it impossible to discern his true emotions.
George Stanford wasn't a fool; the man in black stationed in the corridor wasn't just for show.
If he refused today, he probably wouldn't be leaving this conference room.
That was likely what Young Master Shannon meant by 'courtesy first, force later.'
If he agreed willingly, everyone would be pleased.
But if he refused, Thomas Shannon wouldn't mind resorting to force.
In that case, bloodshed would be inevitable.
