The phone smashed against the wall, making a crisp cracking sound, then fell to the floor.
Wen Yiming was panting heavily, struggling to catch his breath, when the phone by the wall began to ring persistently.
Wen Yiming sat in his leather chair, not moving, while the phone continued to ring stubbornly.
Zhao Yali, who had been waiting outside, pushed the door open, picked up the phone, and handed it to Wen Yiming.
The screen was already shattered, making it impossible to see the incoming call, but Wen Yiming knew it had to be from the sender of the blackmail letter.
"Don't push your luck..."
As he answered the call, Wen Yiming reprimanded in a deep voice.
The price of eighty million was something Wen Yiming had deliberated over time and time again.
Last year, the Zhao family's little grandson was kidnapped, and the ransom was merely fifty million.
