Chapter 603

Sylvia clapped along, grinning. "Honestly, you didn't have to say the second part."

...

After Orson passed Rupert's message along to Chris, he casually mentioned

Rupert's current state.

As soon as Chris heard, he handed off the event to someone else.

"I'll go with you to check on him."

"Yeah."

The two of them walked outside. The rain was still coming down in buckets.

Orson pulled out an umbrella.

Chris raised an eyebrow. “Orson, always prepared. Classic you."

"A friend gave it to me—"

With a sharp click, the automatic umbrella snapped open. Both of them stared at the inside of the umbrella and blurted out at the same time:

"Shit."

"Shit. Actually, an enemy gave it to me," Orson growled.

Chris squinted up. "Zion's still salty about you decking him at that party? You sure you wanna use this thing?"

The inside of the umbrella was plastered with a full-body print of Zion, looking way too smug for anyone's comfort.

Orson took a deep breath to steady himself, trying to channel his professional composure.

"The rain's insane. Let's just use it."

"Sure."

Chris agreed, though he already looked like he regretted it.

As soon as they raised the umbrella over their heads, both of them felt a chill run down their spines.

The photo inside was holographic-depending on the angle, it changed. Nᴇw ɴovel chaptᴇrs are published on FιndＮovel.net

At eye level, Zion was just standing there, but the second they tilted it overhead,

the image flickered into one of Zion wildly swinging a belt.

And the belt? It lined up perfectly with the umbrella handle.

Now, holding the umbrella felt disturbingly like holding Zion's belt.

To make it worse, the handle itself was placed at an awkward spot too low to be comfortable, too high to be practical.

Zion had definitely done this on purpose to mess with Orson.

Chris made a face. "Didn't know Zion had such... flair for drama. My eyes need bleach."

Orson scowled. "You hold it."

"You hold it."

"No, you."

Chris let out a resigned sigh. "Fine, fine, I'll do it."

He took the handle with obvious reluctance, silently praying he wouldn't get some kind of eye infection.

End result: both of them huddled as far from the middle as possible, half-soaked and grumpy.

Upstairs, Zion watched from a window, laughing so hard he nearly fell over.

But the moment Lester called his name, he spun around, face snapping back to the perfect poker-faced assistant.

"Yes, sir."

Sylvia sat in the car, feeling stuffy with the rain pounding outside. She spotted a

hot coffee vending machine under the awning nearby.

Without thinking much, she grabbed her umbrella and headed over.

She scanned her card, but the machine kept flashing the same message, telling her to select again After a few tries, she was about to give up when a hand teached over her shoulder, tapping a tiny line of text at the bottom of the screen. s

"Sold out. You're daydreaming, huh?"

The familiar voice jolted Sylvia. She glanced up at the glass and saw the reflection of a tall figure behind her.

Rupert.

The air around him was cold, heavy with the faint scent of tobacco. It seemed like even the wind couldn't clear the tension he brought.

Sylvia forced herself to look away and leaned in to finally read the small print.

"It's nothing," she said calmly, tapping the back button and choosing a different coffee.

Rupert moved to the machine next to hers and ordered his own.

A breeze tousled his hair, revealing a profile that was unreadable but visibly tired.

"He's in the hospital, but it's got

nothing to do with you," Rupert said

quietly already talked to the

family. No one's going to give your mom a hard time."

fo s

Sylvia hesitated, eyes dropping to hide her reaction. But her fingers curled

inwards, betraying her anxiety.

She'd already been home when she

heard about Tristan's accident, but

she'd come here anyway not

because she cared about Tristan. but because she was afraid the Garcia family would blame her mom, Naomi.

s

"Okay," Sylvia murmured, nodding.

The coffee machine whirred to life, drowning the awkward silence between them.

After a moment, Sylvia felt she should at least ask, out of politeness, "Is Tristan... doing alright—"

"Mr. Rupert!"

A voice called from the far end of the corridor.