Chapter 89

Chapter 89

[Yes.]

Sebastian replied almost instantly. [Dinner together.]

My lips curved upward involuntarily. [Okay.]

Putting down my phone, I immediately rushed to my closet to pick clothes.

After going through options, I finally chose a crisply tailored white dress—formal yet not too exaggerated.

Half an hour later, the doorbell rang.

I took a deep breath and walked to open it.

Outside, Sebastian stood quietly.

The moment I saw him clearly, my breath caught.

He wasn't wearing a suit.

He was wearing the gray cashmere sweater I'd given him.

The soft fabric hugged his broad shoulders and firm chest, outlining smooth, powerful lines.

The aggressively masculine aura usually concealed by his suits was fully exposed in this moment.

Aloofness and wildness—two completely opposite qualities—merged perfectly on him, forming a deadly attraction.

Only one description remained in my mind.

Walking testosterone.

"Seen enough?" His low voice sounded from above, carrying a hint of barely perceptible amusement.

Only then did I snap back to reality, realizing I'd been staring at him for nearly a minute.

My face flushed instantly. I quickly lowered my head. "No... let's go."

He said nothing more, only the amusement in his eyes deepening.

The restaurant was one I'd reserved in advance—a newly opened upscale seafood place, supposedly with very fresh ingredients and hard-to-book reservations.

Located riverside with an excellent view.

The server led us to a window seat. Outside was the shimmering river surface and brilliant lights across the shore.

The atmosphere was perfect.

I'd just picked up the menu, about to order, when from the corner of my eye I glimpsed a familiar figure.

Beauchamp.

He was leading a woman toward the table next to ours.

The woman wore a white Chanel suit, slender figure, long hair over her shoulders, gentle temperament.

Monica.

I frowned, displeasure rising.

Like the persistent ghost.

I looked away, pretending not to see them, lowering my head to focus on the menu.

Sebastian obviously noticed too, but said nothing, only pushing a glass of water in front of me.

"Sophia? What a coincidence."

Monica's artificially surprised voice rang out, carrying a cloying sweetness.

I looked up, meeting her gaze.

Her eyes lingered on me for a second before falling on Sebastian across from me, a flash of jealousy in them.

Beauchamp followed Monica's gaze. The moment he saw Sebastian, his pupils constricted sharply.

And I, seeing Beauchamp's outfit clearly, completely froze.

He was wearing a gray cashmere sweater identical to Sebastian's.

Same brand, same style—even the color was exactly the same.

My mind went blank.

What was happening?

Beauchamp had also bought that cashmere sweater I'd purchased? And coincidentally wore it on the same day as Sebastian?

Looking at Beauchamp, he was clearly also stunned, his expression shifting from shock to disbelief, finally settling into an indescribable livid hue.

Meanwhile, Sebastian across from him merely glanced at him coolly, then picked up knife and fork to methodically cut the bread before him, as if Beauchamp wearing the same outfit was just thin air.

The entire restaurant's atmosphere instantly became bizarre.

The same outfits aren't scary—whoever looks worse gets embarrassed.

This saying now had its most vivid demonstration.

Looking at those two men in matching cashmere sweaters, only one thought remained in my mind.

The same garment on Sebastian was walking testosterone—every inch of fabric perfectly conforming to his body's lines, exuding understated power and wildness.

But on Beauchamp...

Like a cheap knockoff from some luxury replica shop—having the form but unable to carry the texture, instead making his whole person reek of petty awkwardness.

I withdrew my gaze, that displeasure suddenly transforming into a subtle sense of superiority.

So it wasn't the clothes—it was the person.

Monica probably also sensed the bizarre atmosphere, lowering her head to whisper something to Beauchamp.

Beauchamp's voice was neither too loud nor too soft—just enough to reach my ears. "Look at her taste, then look at yours. Learn from it in the future."

Then I heard him lower his voice with a hint of showing off.

"Take this card—no PIN needed. Buy whatever you like. Stop dressing so plainly."

I nearly laughed aloud.

He probably thought this domineering CEO-style handout would move Monica to grateful tears while also getting under my skin.

But to me, it was just laughable and pathetic.

He was basically saying Monica's taste was inferior to mine.

Such a master at insulting people.

Just as I was mentally criticizing him, my water glass was gently tapped.

"Does it look good?" Sebastian's voice was flat, emotionless.

I snapped back, meeting his deep eyes.

I immediately understood—he was displeased. Displeased I'd been distracted, even more displeased my gaze had fallen on another man, even if that gaze held only disdain.

"Not good-looking." I shook my head with strong survival instinct. "Just felt... a bit offensive to the eyes."

He said nothing, raising his hand to summon the server, his slender finger casually pointing at the menu.

"Black-lipped abalone, two orders."

The server paused, then respectfully confirmed, "Sir, this dish is priced by gram. One serving costs approximately five figures."

"Fine."

Sebastian didn't even lift an eyelid.

My heart jumped along with that quote.

His way of expressing dissatisfaction was truly simple and direct.

I leaned closer, lowering my voice. "Mr. Clifford, are you angry?"

He finally looked up at me, a ripple in his eyes.

"This meal's on me." I immediately declared, winking at him. "Consider it my apology."

He looked at me. The coldness in his eyes dissipated somewhat, his lips seeming to curve in the faintest smile, gone in a flash.

Just then, two figures appeared beside our table again.

"Sophia, given Mr. Clifford's status, how could you let him wear this kind of... clothing imitating my style?"

I was so infuriated by Beauchamp's shocking statement that I momentarily couldn't speak.

Imitating him?

Sebastian needed to imitate him?

Had he damaged his brain during rebirth too?

I ignored him, turning my gaze to Monica, speaking leisurely. "Ms. Wilson has such good taste."

Monica's face paled.

I smiled, continuing. "Just loves picking up things I don't want anymore."

Monica's face went even whiter.

While Beauchamp instantly flew into a rage.