For the first time, I willingly took Michael's hand and followed him out of WDC club.
His car was parked to the right of the entrance, the one he was driving the first time we met.
I wonder why I failed to notice it when we came in.
Stepping outside, the wind sobered me up quite a bit.
Suddenly, I regretted deciding to leave with Micheal.
Isn't this just asking for trouble?
Micheal ushered me into the car, but didn't start it.
Outside WDC club, there were still some persistent onlookers peeking out.
"I won't agree to any designs you have on me," I declared with righteous indignation.
Micheal probably found the way I said this amusing.
He took out a cigarette, lit it up, and I found myself transfixed by his actions.
His words caught me off guard, and then he continued, "I, Michael, never stoop to taking advantage of someone in their moment of vulnerability."
"You have some nerve saying that!
What about that time in the hotel..." I retorted instinctively, though too embarrassed to elaborate.
Micheal immediately understood what I was trying to say, and just shook his head.
"That night, I didn't touch you."
Didn't touch me?
How could that be?
I clearly remember how sore and weak I felt all over when I woke up the next day.
If it didn't happen between us, why would I be like that?
It seemed like Michael read my thoughts.
He gave his right hand a meaningful glance and said, "That night, it was just my hand that was a bit sore."
His hand?
Could it be, just like that time in the car, he only used his hand?
I didn't know whether to feel relieved or disappointed.
That night, under the influence of the drug, I was enchanting and enticing, even losing control to such an extent, yet Michael managed to resist and didn't lay a hand on me.
"Could it be that I'm truly incapable of arousing a man's interest?
Or is it that he, just like James, also suffers from erectile dysfunction?"
Frightened by my own conjecture, I stare at Michael, struggling to find any words.
"I've already told you, you can try me out if you want.
You still have time to change your mind."
He turns his head and looks at me ambiguously. His insinuation is clear—he wants me to become his lover.
Regardless of why he approached me, I would never comply with his request.
"You're overthinking.
I told you that I'll repay the money I owe you.
As for your proposal, don't even consider it."
I glance at his car and casually ask, "How much does this car cost?"
"Four million five hundred thousand."
Micheal says nonchalantly.
Indeed, it's a wealthy world I cannot comprehend.
"You're telling me that the car is only worth 4.5 million, yet it costs 1.8 million to fix it?
Are you scamming me?"
I see him chuckle before he hands me several receipts.
"These include the detailed costs for each part.
You can check for yourself whether I... scammed you or not."
After finishing his sentence, Michael suddenly leans closer, his tone and the glint in his eyes turns mischievous with his last words.
"These are the receipts, take a look yourself.
This is an imported car.
Just the paint job costs 600,000 dollars, add to that the body repair, round-trip freight, and many other fees you cannot comprehend, I've not said one word more."
I checked all of the receipts, and indeed found that, just as Michael had said, all that money had genuinely been spent!
At that moment, my spirit deflated entirely.
It seemed that my dream of saving a bit of money was shattered.
"I will pay you back, thank you for coming to my rescue tonight.
When I have time, I'll treat you to a meal."
"Why not today then?"
I had just casually made the suggestion but little did I know, Michael took me seriously.
He even locked the car doors, depriving me of any chance to escape.
Damn it, how can this man be so crafty?
I, a poor, hardworking member of the public, ended up being exploited by a rich man.
But since I've made the offer, to go back on my word would seem a bit unfair.
I just hope he doesn't eat me out of the house and home.
"What are we going to have?"
I asked in a soft voice, clutching my wallet.
"I heard the fried rice near the Second High School is good. Let's eat there."
Micheal spoke, driving the car in that direction, completely leaving no room for me to refute.
But how much can fried rice possibly cost?
Is he looking down on me, thinking I'm broke?
I didn't want to argue with Michael anymore, because the moment he mentioned fried rice, my cravings kicked in.
I attended high school at the Second High School, and my favorite food at the time was the fried rice from the shop next to the school.
My family didn't give me much allowance, so I basically had fried rice for three meals a day.
I was so familiar with the owner, who would usually give me half more fried rice than others.
I would usually eat half of it at noon and finish the rest in the evening.
Just the mention of fried rice has me drooling.
When we arrived, the owner was about to close the shop.
As Micheal and I entered, he glanced at us a couple of times and surprisingly recognised me.
"It's you, huh?
You've grown into such a beautiful young lady!
Same routine as usual?" he asked.
I nodded, watching the uncle skillfully fry rice to my preference, and suddenly felt like crying.
Memories of youth seemed to surge up with that.
Micheal sat generously opposite me, not frowning at all because of the small and cluttered shop.
In my view, for a rich person like him to behave this way, that's quite appreciable.
The owner served the fried rice, which was still a super large serving.
I took a spoonful and tasted it, it had the same old flavor.
"Is it good?"
Micheal suddenly asked me from across the table.
I nodded in response.
The next second, the spoon was taken away by him.
He took up a spoonful and put it into his mouth.