Maisie and her son exchanged a quick glance.
Was it finally time to talk numbers?!
Maisie immediately hopped down from the windowsill.
Calling it a window was a bit generous—it was more of a small ventilation panel that opened vertically. There was no way she'd actually fit through it, let alone fall out.
Jumping out wasn't even on the table.
It was all a show to grab attention, to force Murray to step in. And it worked.
What Maisie didn't know, as she and her son eagerly made their way to Murray's office, was the look their assistant gave them from behind. It was indescribable, shrouded in a veiled darkness.
Beneath that, almost imperceptible, was a hint of… sympathy?
…
This was the second time Maisie and Farley found themselves in this office.
It still felt extravagantly opulent.
Maisie didn't beat around the bush; as soon as she entered, she made her offer—
"Five million."
Murray raised an eyebrow, sneering, "I thought you wanted fifty million?"
Maisie cursed internally. Sure, she wanted that much, but would they ever give it?
She eventually realized that while rich people had plenty of money, they could be really cheap about certain things.
They could drop millions on a horse race, a golf game, or even lose tens of millions in a casino night, but when it came to giving a little extra to people like her, they clamped their wallets shut.
So tight-fisted!
With all their wealth, what was a bit more to them?!
At the same time, Maisie realized that the wealthy could bend low as easily as they could stand tall, and it all came down to whether you were of any use to them.
Take Beverley, for instance. At first, he seemed willing to throw money at them to make them go away, bending over backward to accommodate.
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