?Chapter 1372:


    “Wow, Gerry, you are incredible!” Christina teased, her voice full of warmth. “I am so proud of you.”


    Gerry’s grin widened at her words, glowing with the sheer joy of her approval.


    For a fleeting second, he even thought about going another round with Brendon, just to impress her again.


    But Christina tugged gently at his arm, whispering,


    “Let’s go home. Grandma and the others are waiting.”


    Someone had already begun targeting Hurley. Thest thing she wanted now was to stir up more unnecessary trouble.


    Gerry stood over the two people sprawled on the floor, his gaze cold and sharp.


    “I’ll let you go this time—for Bonnie’s sake,” he said tly.


    His voice was calm, but his presence carried the weight of restrained fury. These two had tormented his sister for far too long. Today, they had finally learned what it meant to cross a Jones.


    “Bonnie, let’s go.” Gerry reached out, taking Christina’s hand as he turned to leave.


    Ynda remained on the ground, trembling with humiliation, her eyes burning with venomous hatred.


    Brendon, having struggled to his feet, quickly knelt beside her.


    “Ynda, are you all right? Did he hurt you?”


    “I’m fine,” she said through gritted teeth.


    Brendon clenched his fists. “That guy thinks he’s invincible just because Christina’s backing him. I’ll make him pay for this.”


    Ynda reminded him, “We still have that meeting with Mr. Lloyd. If we’rete, it’ll be worse than this.”


    Brendon froze. The reminder hit him like a ssh of cold water. Right—the meeting with Darian Lloyd.


    Their potential overseas expansion hinged on it. If they could secure this deal, the Dawson family might finally gain a foothold abroad—a safety they desperately needed.


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    The Lloyds might only rank among Jasgow’s top three families, but their reach extended far beyond the country’s borders. In the shadows of international trade, their influence was absolute.


    Inside a private suite of Morfort Restaurant, the atmosphere was heavy. Darian Lloyd sat at the head of the table, elegantly swirling a ss of red wine.


    The crimson liquid reflected in his eyes, adding a dangerous gleam to his smile—a smile that never reached his eyes.


    “You’rete,” he said, his voice dangerously calm.


    The words sliced through the air like a de. If this weren’t Morfort, he would have thrown the ss at them. But he couldn’t afford to create a scene there.


    They needed the deal, yet they had dared to make him wait.


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