As Lucas Anderson turned his back on everyone, walking resolutely toward the gate, a sharp pang struck Andrea's heart, igniting a sudden wave of panic within her. She called out, her voice laced with anxiety, "Lucas!"
But Lucas Anderson did not pause, nor did he look back. Andrea's instinct was to chase after him, to urge him to stay, but her motion was abruptly halted as her hand was seized. "Why do you want to stop him, Andrea? Let him go. His presence is unnecessary," Lucas Anderson declared, his voice icy, an unmistakable tone of anger shading his features.
Struggling against the grip, Andrea tried in vain to free herself. "Let go of me, let go of me!" she pleaded, her anxiety rising to a crescendo.
Valentine Anderson's face contorted further, jealousy seething through him as he bellowed, "Andrea, have you fallen for him? Do you love my brother?"
The question struck Andrea like a bolt, leaving her speechless, her mind grappling to process the situation. Mrs. Anderson and Benita stood by, wracked with anxiety, unsure of how to mitigate the escalating tension or interject.
Regaining her composure, Andrea's response was visceral—a slap across Valentine Anderson's face, followed by a forceful shove. "Get out of my house! I never want to see you again—get lost! If my son is not here, then I have no reason to see you either!"
Overcome with grief, Andrea collapsed into tears, her body wracked with sorrow, her spirit seemingly shattered.
Witnessing the pain he had caused, Valentine Anderson's hands balled into fists, his remorse tangible. "Andrea, please, stop crying. I will bring Pete back to you," he implored, a note of desperation in his voice.
But Andrea's rage was unyielding. "Get lost! I don't want to see you!" she shouted back, her voice echoing with fury.
With a heavy heart, Valentine Anderson turned away, his footsteps heavy as he made his way to his car. Once inside, he booked a nighttime flight to Cardiff City. Without a backward glance, he drove off toward the airport.
The internet space of Vegas City was thrown into chaos, the two shocking announcements emanating from the Singer's Mansion igniting the online community with fervent speculation and gossip.
Lucas Anderson, whose name dominated the internet headlines, was now seated in a café across from the masked man he had only met a few days prior.
The café was empty except for the two of them, yet the air was thick with tension.
The masked man's fists were clenched tightly under the table, barely containing his rage. Lucas's bruised face and the dried blood around his nose were clear provocations for his fury. If Lucas hadn't restrained him earlier, he might have attacked Valentine Anderson on the spot.
"I need you to pressure Willow Group into returning Pete. I don't believe Valentine will be able to convince Margaret Willow to do it," Lucas sighed, his concern for Pete outweighing his need for medical attention.
"Why are you so concerned about that despicable couple's son after all they've done to you?" the masked man bit back with dissatisfaction. In his eyes, Andrea was no different from Valentine Anderson—they were both ungrateful and unworthy of Lucas's help, especially after he had risked his life to save them from the organization.
"Just follow my orders, understood?" Lucas commanded, his tone icy and gaze sharp.
The masked man felt a chill and replied obediently, "I will execute your instructions this time. But remember, the next favor will come with a condition—you'll have to accept leadership of the organization and use its influence and power."
Lucas nodded, well aware that nothing in this world came without a price, and every favor demanded its own form of repayment.
Satisfied with Lucas's agreement, the masked man left the café with renewed vigor. Alone now, Lucas's phone began to ring. He pulled it out and saw Andrea's name flashing on the screen.
"I'm sorry, Andrea, but I can't bear to hear your broken voice," Lucas whispered to himself before turning off the phone and slipping it back into his pocket.
He donned his jacket and stepped out of the café. Facing the brooding sky, he spoke into the gloom, "Pete, don't be afraid. I'll ensure you're brought back safely."
With those words, Lucas pocketed his hands in his jacket and walked away, his solitary figure a silhouette of melancholy under the streetlights.
As Lucas Anderson suspected, Valentine Anderson arrived in Cardiff and immediately tried to reach Margret Willow by phone, but to no avail—each of her numbers was turned off.
Catching a taxi, he settled into the back seat and gave the driver a simple destination: "The Willow Group." As the taxi wove through the city's streets, Valentine attempted repeatedly to dial Margret's numbers, his frustration evident in his furrowed brow and tense expression. Gradually, however, his anger began to ebb away, his eyelids grew heavy, and despite his efforts to stay alert, his body refused to obey. Within moments, he slumped over in the seat, his head coming to rest against the windshield as consciousness slipped from his grasp.
When Valentine's eyes flickered open again, he found himself restrained in a chair.
"Pascal Willow, my husband," he heard Margret Willow's voice declare.
It was as if a button had been pressed in his head. Valentine glowered at Margret, his lips quivering with suppressed fury. He had a torrent of invectives ready, but they were trapped behind the paralysis of his rage.
Seeing his contorted face, Margret couldn't help but chuckle. "Pascal Willow, you may be the perfect man, but you're too emotional. That's your only flaw, the only thing I dislike about you," she said, her voice tinged with amusement.
Valentine, teeth gritted, managed to spit out through his scowl, "I don't give a damn about your opinions. What matters to me is my son. Where is he?"
A smile played on Margret's lips as she replied, "And who said he is your son?"
A cold, mirthless laugh escaped Valentine as he shot back, "Do you think I'll fall for your lies again? You've deceived me once, do you really think I'm foolish enough to believe anything you say now?"
Before Margret could respond, the door to the room burst open. A man, drenched in sweat and shaking with palpable dread, stumbled in. His voice was fraught with urgency as he cried out to Mrs. Willow, "We're in big trouble!"