<h4>Chapter 671: Together at the Pce</h4>


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


    Randall didn’t acknowledge her. He brushed past her without a word, his presence filling the room with a cold, oppressive force.


    Inside, Rosalie sat calmly, as though untouched by the noise, holding an apple in her hand. She bit into it slowly, unhurried, as if his arrival meant nothing.


    That alone irritated him further.


    In a single stride, he reached her and snatched the apple from her hand, throwing it aside. It hit the floor and rolled away.


    Rosalie turned sharply, her eyes burning as they locked onto him. The calm vanished. Her lips curled, fangs bared as she lunged forward, but Randall was faster.


    He caught her by the arms, holding her at a distance, his grip firm enough to restrain her without effort.


    She struggled, but he didn’t move an inch.


    A scoff left him, cold and filled with contempt. "You must be very pleased with yourself."


    Her re didn’t waver.


    "You’ve been waiting for this, praying for this day toe," he continued, his voice low but edged with anger as his grip tightened slightly.


    "I should have killed you back then instead of sparing your life out of pity... because you gave me the son I wanted," he said, his tone turning darker. "


    For a second, there was silence. Then, Rosalieughed—a manic, sharp sound that cut through the air.


    "Regret is not something you can erase even if you want," she said between breaths.


    That only fueled him more. His hand shifted, moving from her arms to her throat as he grabbed her by the neck, lifting her slightly as his anger surged.


    "I can still kill you even if Draven ordered me not to," he said, his voice dropping. His grip tightened just enough to make the threat real.


    "And then I will retire, sit at home and do nothing for the rest of my days," he added coldly.


    Rosalieughed louder this time. "Then perhaps that life would suit you. But unfortunately, my son will not allow it," she said, her voice strained but mocking. Then her eyes gleamed with something sharp.


    "He won’t let you live if you touch even a strand of my hair."


    Randall scoffed, pulling her closer, his face inches from hers. "He is my son."


    That stopped herughter instantly. "And he is mine," she replied, her voice dropping into something far more dangerous. "And he knows. He knows everything. Not just about what he is... but about our entire history."


    Slowly, Randall released her neck. Rosalie straightened, though the strain was evident beneath herposure.


    A faint, almost triumphant smile touched her lips. "Do you think he will spare your life if you touch me?" she asked quietly.


    Randall stared at her for a moment longer, then let out a short, dismissive breath. "Deranged woman."


    Then, he turned to leave. But before he could take more than a step, she moved. Her handshed out, her nails extending as she struck across his face with sudden, vicious precision.


    The sound cut through the room.


    Randall stopped. Blood welled instantly where her nails had torn through skin.


    For a moment, even he looked surprised. Then the fury returned. He turned sharply, already lifting his hand. But Rosalie didn’t move again. Her strength gave out just as quickly as it hade.


    Her body went limp, copsing back onto the sofa. Unconscious.


    Randall stood there, breathing heavy, the sting of the wound sharp against his face. His gaze dropped to her, taking in her still form, the weakness beneath her defiance.


    "Pathetic." He spat. Then, with a final re, he turned and stormed out.


    Outside, the caregiver had been waiting anxiously.


    The moment Randall stepped out, she lowered her head again, not daring to meet his eyes as he passed. Only when he was gone did she let out a deep breath of relief.


    Right then, she quickly closed the door and hurried back inside, rushing to Rosalie’s side.


    "My Lady..." she called softly, kneeling beside her, checking for any sign of harm.


    ---


    The tension Randall carried from the underground apartment followed him all the way back through the estate.


    Servants kept their distance, their heads lowered as he passed, but the sight of fresh blood along his face spread quickly in hushed whispers.


    Dennis heard it within minutes. By the time he stepped into the corridor and caught sight of his father disappearing into his study, the thin line of blood still visible along his cheek confirmed everything he needed to know.


    There was no need to approach him, so Dennis turned away and pulled out his phone.


    —


    At the pce, Draven was in his own study when his phone rang. He nced at the screen, then answered without dy.


    "Any news?"


    Dennis didn’t bother with formality. "Father actually went to see her. And he has juste back," he said.


    A brief pause followed before he added, his toneced with restrained amusement, "And it didn’t go well. There is a cut on his face, deep enough to bleed." Then, he finished, "I would say she struck him."


    "Seems like she finally got to take a little revenge for herself," Draven said calmly.


    "I thought you would say something like that." Dennis let out a quiet chuckle. "He didn’t expect it. That much is obvious."


    Draven’s tone remained steady. "Good." There was no sympathy in it.


    Dennis shifted slightly, leaning against the wall. "He is really not taking this lightly."


    "Good luck to him," Draven said coldly. "He will need it."


    ***


    Two dayster, the pce gates opened.


    Word had already spread among the inner guards that someone important was arriving, though none spoke of it openly. They stood in formation,posed and silent, as one car passed through under strict escort.


    Randall stepped out first. There was no mistaking the tension in him, though his expression remained controlled.


    The faint mark along his face had begun to heal, but it had not disappearedpletely. It lingered—subtle, but visible enough to speak of what had happened days prior.


    Then, Rosalie emerged. She stepped down slowly, her postureposed despite the faint weakness still clinging to her frame.


    The confinement she had endured had not broken her, but it had taken its toll. Even so, there was something unyielding about her presence, something that refused to bend.


    The guards lowered their gazes respectfully as she passed.


    Just then, Randall gestured forward with a clipped voice, "Move."


    He did not offer her his hand, nor did she ask for it.


    Together, they walked into the pce.