Revenge is best served cold novel Chapter 262

Without another word, I stepped forward and pressed the doorbell.

Jeremiah scoffed. "There's no one home. You can press that button all you want. It's not gonna open any doors for you."

I turned to him, raising an eyebrow. "Oh? And how exactly do you know that?"

He let out a cold huff. "I've been waiting here for ages, and there hasn't been a single sound from inside. If no one's answering, what else could it mean?"

His expression was full of disdain. "I got here way before you. Even if someone were home, I'd be the one going in first."

"Is that so?" I sneered, ignoring him as I rang the doorbell again.

Unlike him, I had already contacted Mr. Simpson's assistant beforehand.

I had made my formal request for a meeting, and the assistant had confirmed that Mr. Simpson was home. He even mentioned that he'd pass my message along. That was the only reason I had come, stew in hand.

On the other hand, Jeremiah had clearly just shown up unannounced.

I rang the doorbell a few times, but there was still no response from inside.

Elsa stepped forward, her tone laced with amusement. "Jane, Jeremiah already told you there's no one home. This is getting a little embarrassing."

She turned toward Jeremiah with a soft smile. "Isn't that right?"

Jeremiah let out a smug laugh and sauntered over, reaching out as if to pat my shoulder. I sidestepped easily, dodging his hand.

For a brief second, embarrassment flashed across his face, but he quickly masked it with indifference and let out another cold huff.

"Quit putting on a show." He scoffed. "You might as well leave now. You won't beat me at this."

I arched a brow. "And why exactly should I leave?"

Meeting his gaze, I smirked. "What's wrong? Afraid I'll outshine you?

Jeremiah was about to retort when the door suddenly swung open. A man in his 50s stood at the entrance, looking thoroughly irritated. It was Mr. Simpson.

His brows were tightly furrowed as he swept a glance over us. "All this bickering! Anyone passing by would think you're about to set up a damn opera stage at my front door."

At his words, I immediately composed myself and offered a polite apology. "Sorry, Mr. Simpson. We didn't mean to disturb you."

However, Jeremiah refused to back down. "It's got nothing to do with me. She's the one picking a fight."

Mr. Simpson shot him an unimpressed look, and his gaze was filled with barely concealed disdain. Then, his eyes shifted to me—or rather, to the container in my hands.

His brow arched. "What's inside?"

I answered obediently, "Pork stew. Freshly made."

Mr. Simpson let out a light harrumph, the irritation in his expression easing slightly. After a pause, he finally stepped aside. "Come in."