'Could it be? Is she really not afraid to die?'
"Bring me a knife!" He refused to believe it.
A sharp cleaver was placed steadily into Leona Grant's hand.
The cleaver reflected the moonlight, its dazzling glint carrying an icy chill.
Leona Grant suddenly raised the cleaver and brought it down with vicious force.
In an instant, a table was split in two.
Of course, he hadn't chopped Annabelle Linton's hands, but a different table instead.
A smirk touched Leona Grant's lips. He glanced disdainfully at the bisected table, then fixed his cold gaze on Annabelle Linton. "See that? It would be easy for this cleaver to take both of your hands. I'm giving you one last chance. Tell me, do you admit you were wrong?"
The smile on Annabelle Linton's lips widened bit by bit, the indifference in her eyes becoming crystal clear. "Forget slapping you twice. If you'd given me a knife, I would've stabbed you with it. And then I'd stab you again."
