Chapter 644

Reginald Blackwood's entire body trembled violently. He turned sharply to glare at Nathan with deadly disbelief burning in his eyes. "You—"

Nathan called for his assistant without hesitation. "Escort Mr. Blackwood back to Highland Estates." His voice held finality as he deliberately avoided looking at his grandfather again. Reginald's face flushed crimson with rage.

Nathan had always been the grandson he was most proud of—the heir he'd poured decades of effort into molding. Unlike Nathan's father Charles Blackwood, who was timid and lacked ambition, Nathan had shown brilliance and boldness since childhood. That's why Reginald had bypassed Charles entirely, handing the company directly to Nathan when he came of age.

Until this moment, Nathan had been perfect. Now, Reginald suddenly felt ancient and powerless. The grandson he'd shaped no longer obeyed him.

After Reginald's departure, Nathan slumped into his chair, exhaustion lining his features. The dim office lighting seemed to consume his silhouette. Harrison entered with documents in hand. "Mr. Blackwood."

"Speak."

"Confidential intel from overseas." Harrison presented a sealed file—information so sensitive even he couldn't access it. Nathan's gaze sharpened.

Harrison hesitated. "Theodore is... attempting to rear fish in the antique aquarium you purchased at the Geneva auction. The fifth batch has just perished."

A glacial silence descended. "Have him report as my personal bodyguard tomorrow."

Harrison barely concealed his shock before nodding professionally and exiting. Bodyguard? In dangerous situations, Theodore would be the first to flee! But questioning Nathan's decisions wasn't an option.

Meanwhile, a new lounge had opened in San Francisco's nightlife district. Naturally, Isabella Montgomery had to investigate. She called Evelyn Sinclair right after work hours. "Drinks. Now."

When Evelyn arrived at Velvet Lounge, she was met with neither pulsating music nor gyrating dancers—just oppressive melancholy. "This is a nightclub?"

The atmosphere was funereal, the music so depressing it could drain joy from champagne. Evelyn scanned the surprisingly crowded space. "How is anyone enjoying this?"

The manager spotted Evelyn's designer ensemble immediately. Though he didn't recognize her in the low light, her Birkin and Patek Philippe screamed wealth. He scurried over. "Madam, how may we serve you?"

"Change this dreadful music."

The manager winced. "A client reserved the entire venue tonight with specific musical requirements."

He knew the soundtrack was inappropriate, but the patron had paid handsomely with one condition: the music couldn't be altered.

"Perhaps a private suite? The sound doesn't carry—"

Evelyn shook her head. "Private rooms lack atmosphere." Isabella was running late. Sighing, Evelyn ordered several bottles of premium Dom Pérignon and settled at the bar to wait.

The manager hovered. "Anything else?"

"What's the fee for selecting a song?" Evelyn's fingers tapped impatiently. "Should I buy out the venue? The entire evening?" This music was emotional sabotage—one more minute might drive her to leap from the rooftop.

The manager glanced toward the VIP section where their mysterious patron slumped drunkenly. Money talked. "Whatever pleases you, madam."

"Perfect." Evelyn smirked, slapping Lucas's black AmEx on the counter. "Play Bee Gees' 'Stayin' Alive.' Now."