This Time, I'll Be the Villain's Favorite Daughter novel Chapter 417

The Time 1 Be train’s Favorite Daughter

Chapter 417 The Terror of Philbert

Tnds–iuosen your hands. Are you holding reins or a jump rope?” he sighed.

Maya said nothing.

That lofty, conductor’s tone of his made her want to scam

The nerve of this man!

This nitpicking streak of his–she finally understood why their father didn’t want to come home.

Maya twisted around and hollered, “Grandpa, I’m riding a horse, not walking a runway. What’s all this posture for?”

“Horsemanship isn’t just about sitting on a horse–it’s an art form!” Philbert raised his cup, delivering a sharp, measured critique.

“Slouching around like that, even a donkey would complain you lack spirit.”

While Maya circled the ring on her horse, puffed up with resentment, Philbert turned to the riding coach beside him and remarked thoughtfully. “This child’s had good reflexes her whole life.

“Not like Toby. First time he got on a horse, he froze up, wrapped his arms around the poor beast’s neck. and refused to let go. When we finally dragged him down, his face was as pale as a ghost–looked like his soul had left his body.”

Maya finished her lap and came back, thoroughly pleased with herself.

“I’m a genius, though, Grandpa.”

Philbert remained unimpressed.

“Still a notch below where I was, back in the day.”

Maya let out a soft little tch.

“Something you’d like to dispute, Maya?”

Maya said, “Nope!”

The riding lesson went fine. Then came golf, and the whole thing went completely off the rails.

In his youth, Philbert had supposedly been an amateur ace, his swing textbook–perfect enough to print in an actual textbook.

He demonstrated a stroke for Maya first, the ball carving a beautiful arc through the air and landing squarely on the green.

“Your turn.” He straightened his posture, handing another club to Maya with an evaluating glare.

Chapter 417 The Terror of Philbert

Maya took the club and gave a swing that certainly looked the part.

益

e–ball didn’t budge. A chunk of turf, however, went flying from the sheer force of her swing.

Philbert was silent for three seconds.

“Ignorant,” he muttered, letting out a deep, soul weary sigh.

Maya eyed the torn–up turf, feeling a bit guilty.

She dutifully jogged over, picked up the stray slice of grass, crouched down, and shoved it back into the dirt like a puzzle piece.

She even gave it a few firm pats to pack it down tight.

Perfect!

Philbert watched from the side, the look on his face beyond words.

“Keep going,” he instructed, doing his level best to maintain his composure.

Maya tried a few more times. The ball went flying now–it just never went in the direction she intended.

Philbert finally couldn’t take it and stepped up to fix her grip. “You’re holding that club like a hoe. This isn’t a farming lesson.”

“Isn’t golf just using a stick to knock the ball in? What’s the difference between tilling soil and hitting a ball?” Maya’s face was all innocent curiosity.

“There’s a world of difference.” Philbert drew a deep breath and tried to hold on to his patience. “Your grip determines the angle of the clubface, and the clubface determines where the ball goes.”

Maya let her grandfather guide her hands into the grip, and this time she was dead serious.

Taking a deep breath, she swung with terrifying intensity–and missed entirely.

The momentum from her absurd strength spun her around 360 degrees, sending her crashing onto her backside on the turf.

The clubhead went flying.

It snapped clean off.

In an instant, her grandfather’s face looked as though he were witnessing the end of the world.

“That was an imported club, Maya.”

Philbert spoke calmly, though his lips were twitching and the wrinkles around his eyes seemed to deepen on the spot.

“So what if it’s imported?” Maya got to her feet off the ground, unhurried, tossed the broken shaft down, and stood her ground. “It’s poor quality, that’s what. What’s the difference between poor quality and cheap?”

“…Say that again?”

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Chopter 417 The Terror of Philbert

“Poor quality.” Maya only got louder. “I’ve barely got any strength–how could 1 possibly snap it? There’s got

be something wrong with the club. Grandpa, did you get sold a fake?”

Philbert was so angry he whacked the golf club hard against the ground. “You little brat, that was a limited edition.”

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