<h4>Chapter 670: Visiting Rosalie</h4>


    <strong><i>[Third Person].</i></strong>


    The words settled between them, heavy and unyielding.


    For a moment, Randall simply stared at him, then he burst outughing. It was not augh of amusement, but one of disbelief, edged with irritation.


    "You must be joking," he said, shaking his head. "Rosalie may be your mother, but she is first my wife. And since when did the underground residence be a prison?"


    He leaned forward slightly, his tone sharpening. "That ce is more thanfortable. Shecks nothing."


    Draven leaned back slightly into the sofa, hisposure unshaken. If anything, there was a faint trace of something unreadable in his expression, as though he was watching rather than engaging.


    He was clearly enjoying this far too much.


    Randall noticed, and it unsettled him.


    "Or is this something else?" Randall continued, his voice carrying a hint of usation now. "Are you looking for an excuse to tie my hands?"


    Draven gave a small, indifferent shrug. "If that is how you choose to see it, then be my guest."


    The dismissal in his tone struck deeper than any insult.


    Randall’s expression darkened, the patience he had maintained slipping away. He rose to his feet, his authority reasserting itself as he looked down at his son.


    "I will consider this conversation never happened," he said firmly. "And that you did not just speak to me in such a manner."


    That was when Draven moved. He leaned forward, the casual ease leaving him entirely as his expression hardened into something far more serious.


    The shift was subtle, but it changed the atmosphere in the room instantly.


    "You should take my words seriously," he said.


    Randall frowned, his irritation sharpening into anger. "Have you lost your sense of reasoning after sitting on that throne for less than a year?"


    Draven finally rose to his feet this time. The difference in authority between them became unmistakable in that moment, conveyed solely by one presence.


    "You will find out whether my senses are intact if my mother is not brought into this pce within two days—alive," Draven said evenly, his voice calm but carrying a weight that left no room for misinterpretation.


    The cold words hung in the air deliberately.


    Randall’s expression shifted, but before he could respond, Draven spoke again. "You are dismissed. See yourself out."


    The authority in his tone left no doubt.


    For the first time in a long while, Randall stood there as a man who had been given clear orders by his own son.


    ---


    Randall left without another word.


    But the moment he stepped outside, the restraint he had held inside began to fracture. His steps were sharp, his expression dark, and by the time he entered his car, the silence around him had already turned heavy.


    He did not make any during the ride back to Oatrun Estate.


    The tension sat visibly in him, coiled and restless, his thoughts turning over themselves with increasing irritation. Draven’s words echoed too clearly—<i>two days... alive.</i>


    It was not just defiance. It was amand—a threat wrapped in calm authority. And that was what unsettled him most.


    By the time he arrived at the estate, whateverposure he had left was gone. He moved through the halls with clipped steps, the servants instinctively lowering their heads and keeping out of his path.


    "Send Dennis to me," he ordered.


    It did not take long. Dennis arrived soon after, stepping into the room with a respectful nod. "Father."


    Randall did not ask him to sit. He directly turned to him. "Have you spoken to your brother recently?"


    Dennis blinked, caught slightly off guard by the question. "Draven?"


    "Yes," Randall pressed. "Did he say anything to you? Hint at anything?"


    Dennis studied him more closely now. Something was clearly wrong. ’<i>Has Draven already begun?’ </i>


    The tension in their father’s demeanour was too obvious to ignore. Still, he answered inly. "No. We haven’t spoken in weeks."


    Randall’s jaw tightened slightly. Dennis hesitated, then asked carefully, "Is something the matter?"


    Randall waved his hand dismissively, already turning away. "You can go."


    Dennis didn’t press. He gave a small nod and left. As soon as he was far enough, he slipped his phone from his pocket and dialled Draven’s number.


    As soon as the line connected, a small smile formed immediately.


    "Tell me," Dennis said, not bothering with formalities. "What did you do to father to make hime home with an ugly expression and even summon me as soon as he returned?"


    Draven’s voice came through calm and steady. "I gave him an order."


    Dennis’s smile widened. "About?"


    "Our mother." Then Draven continued, "He has two days to bring her to the pce, alive."


    "That exins it." Dennis let out a low whistle, clearly impressed. "When I saw him earlier, he looked... unsettled. I don’t think he will be sleeping well tonight," he added, his tone shifting slightly with amusement.


    "That is my intention," Draven replied.


    Dennisughed softly. "Good. I might celebrate this."


    There was a brief pause before Draven spoke again, his tone sharpening slightly. "Keep an eye on him."


    Dennis’s expression steadied. "You think he will try something?"


    "No," Draven said calmly. "But watch him anyway."


    Dennis nodded, even though Draven could not see it. "I will."


    The line went quiet for a moment before the call ended.


    —


    Restlessness did not leave Randall.


    It followed him through the long corridors, into his study, and back out again. He could not sit. Could not think clearly.


    Every attempt to settle only sharpened the irritation burning beneath his skin.


    The more he thought about Draven’s threat, the more it pressed against his pride, his authority, and his control until finally, he moved.


    Without calling for anyone or giving instructions, he made his way to the lower levels of the estate via the elevator.


    The descent into the underground apartment was quiet, the air growing cooler, heavier, with each step he took.


    By the time he reached the door, his patience had run out. He banged on it hard. The sound echoed sharply through the enclosed space.


    A momentter, the door opened. The caregiver stood there, startled at first, then quickly lowered her head.


    "My Lord—"


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