Evelyn Clayton took the pen without hesitation and signed her name on the signature line, then handed it back to James Grant.
"Tomorrow, a preliminary proposal draft is due; Miss Clayton, you’ll handle it."
Matthew Sullivan stepped forward: "Why shouldn’t James Grant do it? What’s he supposed to do?"
Summer moved to James Grant’s side, her gaze warm.
"Director Grant, there are other matters regarding the contract requiring your attention. Let’s discuss this elsewhere."
James Grant’s lazy gaze shifted to Evelyn Clayton, his lips curving slightly, as if questioning or boasting: "Director Clayton, I’ll take my leave then."
Evelyn pursed her lips in silence, her expression calm.
Only after she slightly nodded did he follow Summer out.
"What arrogance! What is there to be so smug about?! Clearly, it’s you who brought in the collaboration, but in the end, the hard work falls on you, while James Grant reaps all the benefits!"
Matthew Sullivan continued to express injustice in front of her, looking frustrated and irritated.
Watching their departing backs, Evelyn Clayton’s phone buzzed several times from her bag.
She exhaled, her brows visibly furrowing in anger, her tone impatient: "Enough, I need to work on the proposal; you focus on your own tasks, I’m leaving."
With that said, Evelyn Clayton hurriedly left the archive room, brushing him off.
She sat in the car and took out her phone.
It was James Grant who sent her a location, the location being at The Empyrean Club.
Evelyn held the phone tightly, the corners of her eyes cold and disdainful, uttering a cold grunt.
Discussing work at a club, what kind of work requires such extravagance?
She immediately started the car and, following the location, raced straight to The Empyrean Club. ᴛʜɪs ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ ɪs ᴜᴘᴅᴀᴛᴇ ʙʏ novel~fire~net
The Empyrean, an upscale private club.
People who come here are either wealthy or noble, with higher status than one another.
Inside the club, the lights were neon, and the music was pulsating.
Evelyn Clayton, in a short black velvet dress, her slim and tall figure with long, straight legs, drew frequent attention.
Several young heirs whistled at her.
She squinted her cold phoenix eyes, not giving even a glance.
Searching through the club, she finally stopped at the door of VIP Room 112.
The door to the room was purposely left ajar, the lighting inside not as flashy as outside.
The incandescent light illuminated the entire room, with gentle classical music flowing smoothly, forming a stark contrast with the chaotic club outside.
Evelyn Clayton leaned against the door, slightly bending her knees, heels against the wall, arms crossed, listening intently.
Inside, Summer proactively poured two glasses of champagne, her delicate fingers holding a glass, offering it to James Grant.
James Grant was sunk into the couch.
The light above spilled across his sharply defined face, casting shadows, making him appear even colder and more dim.
His legs crossed, fingers casually placed on his knee, unmoving, his dark eyes casually looking at the wine in Summer’s hands.
"I’ve quit drinking."
He calmly stated three words, averting his gaze.
His peripheral vision swept the door a few times, deliberately or not.
Summer said nothing, putting down the wine glass.
Then she stood up and moved closer to sit beside him.
James Grant’s expression turned icy, his eagle eyes glaring at her, clearly warning.
She pretended not to notice.
"Director Grant, The Grant Group’s stocks have been declining recently, causing significant losses. Uncle Grant must have told you, right? The Grant Family has brought back Matthew Sullivan, along with Jasper Grant; Director Grant, your position is coveted! Securing the collaboration with me, is it an advantage or redundant? I believe Director Grant can discern this."
After her remark, his tense brow relaxed, yet the chill deepened.