Harry Hunter carried the roast chicken, turned around and went back home, wanting to throw the roast chicken into the trash can, but since it was Isabella Weaver's favorite, he grudgingly placed it on the dining table.
He knocked on the table, his expression cold enough to freeze someone: "Isabella, come here!"
Isabella poked her head out from behind the sofa: "I'm not coming over, I feel like you might eat someone."
The two maids making breakfast in the kitchen were also trembling with fear, Harry's aura was too terrifying, they didn't dare say a word.
"Not going to eat you, come here, eat chicken."
"Chicken?"
"Your lover sent it, you're not going to eat it? Your lover said this is the flavor you loved when you were little, he sold a Lamborghini to buy the recipe and roasted it for you!"
Harry's voice was dripping with sarcasm, and his expression grew uglier with every word.
