Ethan Bolton was initially a bit displeased, feeling the irritation of being schemed against by his little wife, but on second thought, it made sense. Her father owed so much money—without a deposit, he’d probably get his hands and feet chopped off. He definitely didn’t want Ryan Carter crying her eyes out every day.

　　“Fine, since you took such good care of me last night, I’ll give a deposit of 100 million first.” Ethan Bolton pulled out his black card, twirling it between his well-defined fingers.

　　Ryan Carter shot him a sidelong glance. “Well, thank you so much, Dior·Mr. Bolton.”

　　“No, call me Dior.” There shouldn’t be such distance between us.

　　“……”

　　The Maserati lurched, nearly sending a beggar—who was scrubbing the car with a filthy rag at the intersection—flying.

　　“If you don’t want to pay, just say so.” The beggar looked at them with disdain, both hands smearing the windshield into a mess.

　　After a bumpy ride, they finally arrived at the private clinic.

　　Amidst the green trees, a white villa could be seen from afar. Pure European architecture, magnificent and splendid, it didn’t look like a clinic at all.

　　The interior decor matched the exterior—high-end and luxurious. The lounge featured sapphire velvet sofas and a thick starry carpet. On the wall hung Rubens’ “The Descent from the Cross.” Real or fake, just having it there made the place look classy.

　　“Hello, Mr. Carter, Dr. Sullivan is already waiting for you in the consultation room.”

　　The doctor who ran this clinic was named Edward Sullivan, a Chinese-American. He grew up in the US, a medical prodigy who earned his PhD at a young age. One day, on a whim, he decided to return to China and open a clinic, serving only the wealthy.

　　Since he was working in China, he needed a Chinese name.

　　The friend helping him set up was from Tianjin. After hearing the pricing for his services, his face wrinkled like a Goubuli bun: “You really lack all morals, you should just be called Quede (lacking morals).”

　　And so, he became Edward Sullivan.

　　Dr. Edward Sullivan’s clients were all rich, most of them middle-aged or elderly. Older people always have some lingering sentiments and a grateful heart. So, around that “Descent from the Cross” painting, there were a dozen or so big red banners reading “Living Hua Tuo” and “Miraculous Hands Bring the Dying Back.”

　　A true blend of East and West.

　　“Please let me scan Mr. Bolton’s smart brain.” The receptionist smiled at Ethan Bolton.

　　The Louis XIII was in for repairs, so the current Ethan Bolton was a primitive man without a smart brain. The considerate receptionist wasn’t fazed, issuing him a temporary card and pulling out the POS machine to collect the card fee.

　　Seeing the card reader, Ethan Bolton understood. He thought to himself that his little wife’s dad really had no taste—borrowing money from such a tacky place. They asked for money right away, didn’t even bother with a bit of small talk, nor did they drag out a tied-up father-in-law to make his little wife cry and beg.

　　Boring.

　　Unable to play the big boss as he wished, the The President took out his black card, chin slightly raised. “How much?”

　　“Two hundred.” Ryan Carter snatched the black card and handed it to the receptionist.

　　Only two million? What a joke!

　　“For such a small amount as two million, just have your secretary get it.” The The President was quite displeased to be called over for such a trivial matter.

　　“It’s two hundred yuan.” Ryan Carter pointed at the amount displayed on the card reader.

　　The receptionist smiled and handed him the “200 yuan” receipt to sign.

　　Ethan Bolton stared at the number in a daze, then whispered to his little wife, “Twice last night, I should give you four hundred.”

　　“…Get lost!”

Chapter 4: The CEO’s Million-Dollar Bride (4)┃I Don’t Like Men Who Play Hard to Get

　　The consultation room was quite spacious, decorated much like the main hall.

　　Dr. Sullivan sat behind a medieval-style desk, wearing gold-rimmed glasses, one hand clenched and resting against his lips, looking gravely at the projection screen on the opposite wall. A science report was playing.

　　Seeing Ryan Carter and the other approach, he gestured for them to watch together.

　　“With the widespread adoption of smart brains, many issues have followed. Since the smart brain connects to the user’s neurons, if it’s struck by an external force while activated, it could cause neural dysfunction…”

　　A neurology expert appeared, warning the public to protect their heads and avoid heavy blows.

　　The scene then switched to the streets of America, where a protest against smart brains was underway.

　　“Abolish smart brains, bring back smartphones!” The slogan rang out loud and clear. People waved little flags and banners, blowing whistles. Some had drawn big red X’s over photos of the father of smart brains; others had shaved their heads and painted 3D holes to symbolize the “brain holes” caused by smart brain malfunctions.

　　On a makeshift stage pulled by a small truck, moving slowly with the crowd, a burly father was passionately recounting his family’s ordeal.

　　His child had been watching the movie “Superman” when a piece of plasterboard fell from the ceiling and hit his head. Ever since, he believed he was Superman.

　　“This week alone, he’s tried to jump off a building three times. Yesterday, he insisted his x-ray vision saw the neighbor girl’s underwear color, and her brother beat him up. Now his eyes are still swollen.” As he spoke, he picked up his eight-year-old son with panda eyes, tears streaming down his face.