?Chapter 1189:


    He had no memory of his past with Harlee and had no desire to know.


    With his longshes briefly lowering, Rhys reclined on the sofa with a cold demeanor.


    “That’s not my question, Jonathan. Stop assuming you can read my thoughts, and don’t try to use my memory loss to deliberately nder me.”


    Rhys assumed Jonathan was insinuating infidelity as a means to push him away from Harlee. The very idea offended him. To him, apart from Harlee, no one else mattered. It was evident their conversation was out of sync.


    Jonathan chuckled dryly, shaking his head.


    “Deliberately nder you? I don’t have the time for that.”


    “What’s your point?” Rhys’ tone grew harsher.


    “If you don’t want to know about your past, then there’s no point in continuing this talk,” Jonathan retorted.


    With a frosty nce, Jonathan stood, heading for the door.


    Halfway there, he stopped and added, “And Rhys, don’t use yourck of memories as an excuse to make Harlee endure everything for your sake. It’s not exactly admirable.”


    “What are you trying to say?” Rhys’ fists clenched in anger.


    “Am I wrong?” Jonathan countered, unflinching.


    “She treats you like a child, indulging your every whim. When you’re upset, she soothes you—and yet, you let her carry the burden.


    Aren’t you taking her for granted, assuming she’ll never leave?”


    “I did not!” Rhys’ jaw tightened.


    “You didn’t?” Jonathan echoed, his voice cutting.


    “I thought you were a man, but you’re just an immature guy avoiding the truth.


    Clearly, we’re done here.”


    With that, Jonathan exited without looking back. Rhys reached out to stop him, but Jonathan shrugged off his grip.


    Jonathan added, “Yes, you’ve sacrificed a lot for Harlee—but that was the older version of you, not the current one who’s just a child.”


    Jonathan’s words hit Rhys like a thunderp.


    Rhys despised the thirty-three-year-old version of himself, avoiding anything rted to those memories.


    Even his attempts to regain his lost memories were devoid of genuine interest.


    He simply clung to the idea that reiming his lost memories would prove he was still himself—not the broken, amnesiac version of Rhys he had be.


    Jonathan’sugh was sharp, cutting through the tension.


    “Struggling to ept it? Then let me enlighten you—did you know the mythical golden insects keeping you alive thrive on Harlee’s blood?”


    Rhys froze, his head lifting in stunned silence.


    He had always known the mythical golden insects had saved him, but he had no idea their survival depended on such a cruel price. No idea at all.


    “Do you think I’m lying?” Jonathan’s voice was steady and unyielding.


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