As soon as he hung up the phone, Zhang Fuqiang realized that everyone in the private room was holding their breath, and a dozen pairs of eyes were staring intently at him.
His face instantly turned dark as ink, and he glared at everyone angrily: "What are you all staring at?! I'm just having a phone call with my uncle, why are you all craning your necks? Do you have a habit of eavesdropping on others' privacy?"
The crowd, like startled birds, quickly lowered their heads and pretended to eat, the sounds of clinking tableware chaotic, unable to conceal the tense atmosphere at the table.
Zhang Fuqiang snorted coldly, his gaze lingering on the unfazed Yang Xiaoxiu, his anger growing.
He signaled to the two guys beside him, then turned to scan the crowd coldly: "I'll deal with something outside, stay put."
He deliberately stressed his words, his eyes like a poisoned blade, "when I come back, if I find anyone daring to leave early..."
