Chapter 1559: Chapter 1559: Playing with Someone Else’s Woman
Deep night.
The night descends over Landon, plunging everything into pitch-black darkness.
South Line, racing track.
The final match is about to unfold under the cover of night.
The protagonists are Jesse Rowan and Wayland Pierson.
The competition follows a best-of-three format, and the loser must abide by the rule: lend their female companion for one night.
Jesse Rowan’s companion is Joan Harry, while Wayland Pierson brought an eighteen-tier model, a typical internet celebrity face named “Cici.”
Joan Harry didn’t like this sort of setting; she thought she was merely accompanying Jesse Rowan to go through the motions.
Whenever Jesse Rowan was engrossed in racing, she stayed alone in the hotel room, soaked in the hot spring, and quietly read her book.
Before the race, Jesse Rowan smoked a cigarette.
The previous two rounds ended in one loss and one win. If he won the third round, that Cici girl would be his.
He couldn’t even remember Cici’s face, let alone wanting her for a night.
But if he lost, he’d have to lend Joan Harry to Wayland Pierson for a night.
Looking at it, the race was clearly disadvantageous for him—eighteen-tier models were a dime a dozen to him.
Jesse Rowan took a fierce drag on his cigarette and gazed at the pitch-black mountains in the distance.
Why had he agreed to this race? Was it defiance? Or was it the stirring of some dormant element buried deep within him?
Flashes of chaotic scenes filled his mind.
A hotel, a suite, naked men, and screaming women.
That crack in the open door had ushered in the first shadow of his life.
Jesse Rowan’s eyes glimmered with icy coldness—sharp and biting, as if his heart were sinking into the depths of the ocean.
The sky was dark, and so was his vision.
“Brother Rowan, it’s about to start and you’re still smoking? Not chickening out, are you?” Wayland Pierson approached, his face wearing that signature smirk, grinning slyly.
“Do I look like the type to chicken out?”
“Of course not, just teasing you—don’t take me seriously. By the way, Brother Rowan, that little woman you brought along looks kinda familiar. Like I’ve seen her somewhere before.”
Wayland hadn’t gotten a clear look at Joan Harry’s face back at the hospital. Seeing her in a rush today, he felt a sense of familiarity, as if he’d glimpsed her in some beauty magazine.
“Generic face—what’s strange about looking familiar?”
“True, true. When you’ve seen enough women, they all blur together. But Brother Rowan, your girl is genuinely stunning. I’m definitely looking forward to this final round. If I win… tsk-tsk, I’ll have the beauty all to myself.” Wayland Pierson exaggeratedly licked his lips, rubbed his hands together, “But don’t worry, Brother Rowan—by dawn, the beauty will still be yours.”
Jesse Rowan let out a cold laugh: “Anything I give away, I never take back.”
If he lost Joan Harry to Wayland Pierson, he wouldn’t reclaim her.
“Doesn’t that mean I’ve scored big?” Wayland Pierson’s face lit up with feigned excitement, “Brother Rowan, you’re way too generous. Looks like I’ll have to go all out later to live up to your kindness.”
Joan Harry’s face suddenly flashed before Jesse Rowan’s eyes—
Fragile and frail, pale without a trace of color. She didn’t smile, and she didn’t speak much.
He rubbed his temples, his head throbbing faintly.
The sudden headache put him in a foul mood.
A terrible mood.
The night wind brushed past him, cold as ice, carrying a biting chill.
He had played races like these overseas dozens of times—notching both wins and losses—occasionally claiming other men’s women, sometimes sacrificing his own companions.
Purely for the fun of it.
Chasing the excitement, the thrill.
“Brother Rowan, are you not feeling well? If you’re unwell, should we reschedule?”