After Yvette and Tyson entered, the onlookers finally dared to speak. A richly dressed girl, also turned away from the Royal Phoenix, gasped, covering her mouth. “Oh my gosh, did you see that? The important guest Damian invited was a girl who got off the bus?”

Everyone nodded, their expressions complex. A well-dressed man added, “News about the Goodman family has spread throughout Mysonna. I heard Damian’s back to reclaim the family.”

“I heard that too, but it won’t be easy. Damian’s been away from Mysonna for so long, and Braydon’s in charge now,” a middle-aged man said.

“The Goodman family’s affairs are far beyond our reach. Let’s leave before we get into trouble,” someone suggested.

The crowd, remembering the Goodman family’s ruthless reputation, quickly dispersed. Some lingered, jittery, realizing their folly in gossiping about them.

Tyson walked ahead, his expression icy, maintaining distance. Yvette strolled behind, hands in her pockets, utterly carefree. He wasn't surprised; expecting her in a formal suit would have been odd, he thought.

The Royal Phoenix’s gun room, crafted with state-of-the-art technology, cost over thirty million dollars. Service prices, naturally, were exorbitant. The guns were the latest models; some were unique, not just one or two. Someone speculated that Royal Phoenix’s owner must be an arms dealer, explaining their access to the newest weaponry.

At the gun room entrance, Tyson softly knocked. Inside, Damian meticulously polished a gleaming, dark gun. His eyes, shadowed and murky, held a sharp glint; his hands were dry and wrinkled.

Hearing the knock, Damian said, “Come in.”

Tyson stepped aside, opened the door, bowed slightly, and gestured respectfully. “Please, Ms. Zeller,” he said.

Yvette nodded, hands still in her pockets, and entered with casual ease. She pulled out a chair, sat down without hesitation, crossed her legs, and rested her chin on her hand. With a blank expression and a rebellious air, she removed her baseball cap, glancing at Damian with a crooked grin. Calmly, she poured herself water and drank.

Damian’s eyes grew colder. She’s still so rebellious, he thought. If she’d agreed to be with Braydon, she’d be the Goodman family’s mistress now. Why vanish for years, only to reappear?

Damian broke the silence. “Long time no see, Yvette.”

Yvette set down her cup, relaxed yet indifferent, a blend of coolness and mischief. Her voice was monotone. “I didn’t expect to see you again. Pure coincidence.”

Damian was taken aback, his expression darkening. Her words are as sharp as ever, he thought.

Tyson remained expressionless, his gaze shifting between them before dropping. In Mysonna, only she would dare speak to Mr. Goodman like that, he thought.

Damian placed a black gun on the table, the barrel pointed at Yvette. She continued to rock her legs, her pale face seeming radiant. Her eyes were icy; she flexed her wrist, her gaze arrogant. Damian discreetly turned the gun away.

“What brings you back? Have you met Braydon?” Damian asked.

Yvette’s eyes were cold. Lifting her eyelids slightly, she said, her voice devoid of warmth, “Whether I met him or not, don’t you already know? You’ve been playing this ‘old cat’ role for years; aren’t you tired of it?”

Damian choked on his coffee, his face flushing red. Tyson’s expression shifted. The expensive brew suddenly tasted dull.

“Are you not considering my grandson?” Damian cautiously asked, worried, though unlikely, that Yvette might regret her actions.

Yvette toyed with her coffee cup, her slender fingers tapping lightly. Her lips curled into a half-smile. “Keep him in check. Last time was the final straw. If it happens again, you’ll face the consequences,” she said.

Damian’s face tightened. Yvette was a woman of her word. Her gratitude for saving her life had expired.

“I’ll keep him in check, but I hope you’ll stop appearing before him. You know how unstable Braydon is…weak. Can’t you be more forgiving? You know how rough his childhood was,” Damian pleaded, hoping Yvette wouldn’t be too harsh on Braydon.

Yvette glanced at him, leaning back, a cold look in her eyes. Her voice was low and raspy. “Am I his father or his mother?”

Damian’s face paled, his eyes fierce. What can I say after that? he thought.

He took a sip of coffee, then replied coldly, “Fine, I understand.”

Unfazed by Damian’s fury, Yvette took a vanilla toffee from her pocket and ate it. Her black phone buzzed—a call from Jeremiah. The coldness softened slightly as she answered, in front of Damian and Tyson.

“Hello!” Jeremiah usually called or texted at this time.

“Have you eaten?” Jeremiah asked.

“I have,” Yvette replied.

“The weather’s changing in Mysonna. Wear an extra coat, avoid cold drinks, stay warm, don’t open the windows at night. Don’t catch a cold,” Jeremiah instructed.

The soldiers around Jeremiah stood motionless, afraid to move. Is he still the Living Reaper feared throughout the ranks? one wondered. Or is he just a fretful mom?

After a brief conversation, Jeremiah hung up. Even during a military meeting, he’d called Yvette.

Damian fixed his gaze on Yvette, his eyes sharp with suspicion. “Got yourself a boyfriend?” he asked, unconvinced anyone would date someone as fierce as Yvette.

Yvette put away her phone, crossed her legs, tilted her head, and gave him a nonchalant look.

“None of your damn business,” she snapped.

Tyson intervened, his face stern. “Ms. Zeller, regardless of your feelings, remember to respect your elders.”

Yvette didn’t react, fiddling with her cup. “Seems like I’ve been too polite, making everyone think they can act like my elders,” she retorted, outrageously arrogant. From anyone else, it would have been jarring; from Yvette, Tyson was speechless. She wasn’t wrong; her relationship with Damian had always been transactional. She’d repaid her debt.