Jasmine Yale really didn't know how to communicate with him.
"Do you know who you are? You're the president of Cheney Group, the very impressive, super-rich kind," Jasmine coaxed him in the tone one might use with a child, "so, you'll never be poor, never ever."
"If I run out of money, will you support me?"
"You won't run out of money."
"Will you support me or not?"
Sylvan Cheney looked very persistent, his drunken eyes fixed on Jasmine.
She couldn't be bothered to argue with him, in case she upset him.
"I will." She let go of his shirt, starting to tidy up the bedroom.
As if she could afford to support him, with his picky taste, discerning eyes, and fussy eating habits, all demanding the best. She'd be surprised if she could afford him.
She couldn't even afford to take care of his Riceball.
Indeed, her bed was a disaster because of him.
The sheets were wrinkled, and pillows, the charger, and the remote were scattered everywhere.
Had he come to wreak havoc?