Shalma Hughes almost spat out her coffee after hearing Wendy Quinn's words.
"Wendy, could you not be so sharp-tongued? It's rare for me to come back," Shalma said, shooting her a glare. A look of sheer frustration crossed her delicate face.
"Alright, alright! I'll stop," Wendy said, throwing her hands up in surrender.
Just then, a waiter approached their table carrying two cups of coffee. "Your coffees, ladies."
Shalma looked confused. "We didn't order coffee. Is there a mistake?"
"No mistake. Mr. Winslow paid for them," the waiter said with a slight bow before walking away.
Shalma froze instantly, paralyzed in place like a statue.
Wendy waved a hand in front of her face. Seeing no reaction, she raised her voice. "Earth to Shalma! Who is this Mr. Winslow? Do you know him?"
"Wendy, let's call it a day. I'm a bit worried about Miss Laura, so I'm heading back first. Let's keep in touch!" After blurting that out, Shalma grabbed her backpack and bolted for the café door, leaving Wendy staring after her in utter shock.
The moment she stepped out of the café, a Rolls-Royce—striking enough to make passersby turn their heads—pulled up right beside her.
Ronan Fordham stood there dressed entirely in black over a crisp white shirt. With his neat buzz cut and chiseled features, he looked as rigid as a sculpture.
Shalma grumbled inwardly that Winslow's men were all cast from the same mold—emotionless and stoic, just like the man himself.
Ronan stepped forward and spoke respectfully, "Winslow ordered me to wait here for you, Miss Hughes."
"Why is your boss in Eldoria? Does his sphere of influence extend here too?" Shalma was a little curious. As far as she knew, Winslow Corp had no business ventures in Eldoria.
"Master Winslow and Mrs. Winslow reside in Eldoria," Ronan replied.
"Oh! I see," Shalma murmured. It genuinely surprised her that his parents lived in Eldoria. She had always assumed they resided in a money-soaked metropolis like Aethelgard. After all, compared to Aethelgard, Eldoria was a bit underdeveloped.
Seeing Ronan maintain an inviting gesture, she shot him a fierce glare before finally climbing into the car.
Since they had already crossed paths, avoiding him now would just make her look pretentious, wouldn't it? Besides, she had nothing to hide from anyway.
By the time Julian Winslow emerged from the café and entered the car, Shalma had already fallen asleep in the backseat. She slept completely defenseless.
His cold gaze swept over her. She was dressed like a student—a simple white T-shirt, faded skinny jeans, and a pair of white canvas shoes. She wore no makeup today, yet a faint pink blush tinted her cheeks.
"Ronan, give me the car keys," Julian said coldly, his eyes fixed unblinkingly on the sleeping figure.
Ronan frowned, but handed the keys over and stepped out of the vehicle.
The car started and drove away. With the windows rolled down, a steady stream of wind poured into the cabin as the vehicle picked up speed.
Gradually, Shalma shrank back against the chill. Her drowsiness vanished, and she slowly woke up.
The moment she opened her eyes and saw the person in the driver's seat, she nearly turned to stone.
He was actually driving the car himself. This was a rare sight indeed. In her memory, wherever he went, he was always surrounded by an entourage of bodyguards, drivers, and private secretaries. Even when they were together, Assistant Sutton would always be stationed right outside the door.
Forget about driving—even the most mundane tasks like serving food were handled by someone else. He was a bona fide emperor in every sense of the word.
"With Winslow acting as my chauffeur, shouldn't I take a picture to commemorate the occasion?" Shalma tucked a strand of windblown hair behind her ear, her pristine face flashing its usual teasing smile.