World Domination Begins With Getting a System in a Modern World-Chapter 136: Putting A Bitch In Her Place [Power Stone Goal Bonus - ]

Chapter 136: Putting A Bitch In Her Place [Power Stone Goal Bonus Chapter]

Leslie blinked in surprise as she stumbled slightly from the impact. She immediately turned toward the woman she had bumped into.

But before she could say a word, the woman straightened herself and turned slowly — and with a look that could curdle cream.

She was tall, striking, and draped in head-to-toe designer. A custom emerald Balmain jacket clung flawlessly to her frame, paired with diamond-studded Cartier earrings, and heels sharp enough to slice granite.

Her clutch — crocodile skin and screaming wealth — was clenched tightly in her manicured hand. Her face was sculpted, lips glossed to perfection, cheekbones slicing clean beneath oversized sunglasses.

"I’m so sorry," Leslie said instantly, instinctively reaching out. "I wasn’t watching where I—"

But she never got the chance to finish.

"Oh my God, are you blind?" the woman snapped, stepping back as if Leslie had thrown sewage on her instead of barely bumping shoulders.

"Look what you’ve done! This is Balmain, not some discount trash from a corner store!"

Leslie’s mouth opened slightly in stunned disbelief.

"I didn’t mean to—"

"Of course you didn’t," the woman cut her off, eyes flashing with disgust as she looked Leslie up and down.

"That outfit you’re wearing? It’s probably the only nice thing you’ve ever owned. You poor little cockroach."

James, who had been a few steps ahead, turned sharply at the commotion, his brows furrowing as he walked back toward them.

Leslie glanced at him but subtly raised a hand — don’t step in yet.

"I said I’m sorry," Leslie said, trying again, her voice calmer this time. "It was an accident."

"You think ’sorry’ fixes that?" The woman scoffed, then made a show of inspecting the invisible mark on her dress.

"You can’t even afford to look at clothes like this, let alone wear them."

Leslie’s face darkened, but she didn’t say anything more. She just turned and started walking again toward James, who by now had stepped right beside her. He didn’t say a word, just gently took her hand.

But the woman wasn’t done.

"Of course you’d cling to the first man with a shiny watch," she sneered.

"Don’t be fooled by his little act, honey. He’s clearly another lowlife like you — dressing up in borrowed money and pretending to belong. Newsflash: no matter how you two dress, you’ll never be one of us."

James paused mid-step. His jaw tensed. He wanted to say something — something — but Leslie gently squeezed his hand.

"Don’t," she whispered under her breath. "It’s not worth it. Let this bitch enjoy the spotlight she created for herself, while it lasts."

James looked at her, studying the fire in her eyes despite the calmness in her voice. He knew that she was holding it in and trying to rise above it.

But the woman — sensing she wasn’t getting the last word — suddenly surged forward.

"Don’t you walk away from me, peasants! You ruined my dress. You need to compensate before you leave—!"

In a flash, she reached out, her long manicured fingers aiming straight for Leslie’s hair.

James stepped forward immediately, but he didn’t have to do a thing.

Crack!

Leslie’s palm connected with the woman’s face in a vicious slap that echoed like thunder across the polished marble of Rodeo Drive.

The woman reeled back, stumbling slightly in her heels, clutching her cheek in disbelief.

"You touched me," Leslie said, her voice ice cold now, with every trace of her earlier restraint gone.

"I tried to apologize. I tried to walk away. You called me names. You insulted me and my man. You put your hands on me."

Her eyes narrowed dangerously.

"You don’t get to do that and walk away untouched."

The woman’s eyes watered slightly, more from shock than pain, as she looked around — realizing for the first time that she had drawn a small crowd.

Shoppers and bystanders had stopped to watch, phones raised discreetly, murmuring to each other.

James moved to stand beside Leslie now, not to stop her — but to show that he wasn’t going anywhere.

"I don’t know who you are," he said calmly to the woman. "And frankly, I don’t care. But you disrespected my girlfriend, and now you’re embarrassed because she put you in your place."

The woman looked like she wanted to speak again — to scream — but she was suddenly very aware of the eyes on her.

One of the store employees stepped out from the nearby Gucci boutique, a young woman in a crisp blazer with a walkie-talkie at her belt.

"Is there a problem here?" she asked, professional and stern.

The woman pointed at Leslie.

"She assaulted me!"

"She attacked her first," someone from the small crowd said.

"I saw the whole thing," another voice added. "She tried to drag her hair. The other girl was defending herself."

James kept his hand on Leslie’s back, gently steering her away.

"I think we’re done here," he said quietly.

The employee glanced between them, then nodded.

"Agreed. You two are free to go."

The woman stood there, her face red with rage, hand still hovering near the spot Leslie had slapped.

"Low-class trash!" she screamed, unable to hold it in, her voice echoing off the storefronts.

"You think money buys class? You’ll always be just a couple of street rats in designer knockoffs!"

James didn’t look back and Leslie didn’t even flinch. They walked away — hand in hand, calm and composed, their silence louder than the woman’s shrieking.

Passersby paused with phones were already out. The moment would hit private group chats before the hour ended — and the woman knew it.

"You’ll regret this!" she screeched. "I know people in this city!"

Back at the car, Leslie was still visibly seething.

James opened the door for her, then stepped around to the driver’s seat and got in. He didn’t say anything right away, just started the engine.

"I tried," Leslie muttered, finally breaking the silence. "I really tried not to slap her."

James glanced sideways at her, lips curving into a small smile.

"You held it together longer than I would’ve."

Leslie looked down at her hands and let out a soft, shaky breath.

"I hate that people like that still exist."

James reached over and took her hand again.

"She thought she could say whatever she wanted because of the way we looked," he said quietly.

"But you put her in her place. I’m proud of you."

Leslie turned to him, her expression softening.

"Thank you for not jumping in."

"I almost did."

"I know."

They smiled at each other.

"You know," James said, turning to look at her with a playful glint in his eye, "I kinda liked it when you called me my man earlier. Think you could say it again?"

Leslie’s face flushed immediately. She turned her gaze toward the window, her fingers fidgeting in her lap.

"No..." she mumbled shyly.

James leaned in a little, still grinning.

"Come on, just once. For me."

She bit her lower lip, stealing a quick glance at him.

Then, in a barely audible whisper, she muttered, "My man."

James chuckled low and satisfied, the sound rumbling from his chest.

"Yeah. I could get used to that."

Leslie rolled her eyes but couldn’t help the small beautiful smile that bloomed on her face.

With that, James shifted the gear into drive, and the car pulled smoothly away from the curb — leaving behind Rodeo Drive, and a bruised ego in designer heels.

James was aware that what had happened with the woman earlier was just a taste of the world they were stepping into.

The elitist circles where wealth didn’t always mean class, and where sometimes, the only thing that made you stand tall was knowing exactly who you were, who you portray yourself to be and how to do it perfectly.