Chapter 472

Driscoll stood helplessly, unable to imagine the cause of Jayden and Elyse's devastating argument.

"Sir," he interjected, attempting to ease the tension, "I'm sure there's a reasonable explanation. Please listen to Elyse. Stubbornness isn't always beneficial."

"Are you dictating my actions now?" Jayden snapped, glaring briefly at Driscoll before heading to his study. Driscoll sighed. Reconciliation seemed increasingly difficult. "Should I serve dinner?" he called.

"Dinner? I'm too furious to eat!" Jayden retorted, disappearing into his study and slamming the door.

Inside, he rose from his wheelchair and strode to the French doors. He pounded his fist on the sill, grunting in frustration. Blinking, he slowly opened his clenched fist, staring at his palm as if reaching for something—the hand he had used to strangle Elyse.

Jayden's face twisted in anguish. A wave of tangled emotions—anger, fear, and an undefined dread—overwhelmed him. He hadn't meant to hurt her, but he'd lost control. He clutched his chest and heaved.

Calmer now, he slumped onto the sofa, pain and sorrow etched on his face.

Meanwhile, Driscoll, ever vigilant, took Elyse's dinner upstairs. She lay on the floor like a lifeless doll. A knock on her door roused her, but she remained dazed as she opened it.

Seeing Elyse's tear-stained face, Driscoll felt a pang of sympathy. "Are you alright? I brought you food."

Elyse offered a faint, almost mocking smile. "Didn't he forbid me from eating? You're disobeying his orders."

Driscoll patted her hand, setting the tray down. "Don't worry. I know him well. Despite his tough exterior, he's softhearted. He wouldn't let you go hungry."

Elyse sat, her movements sluggish, her eyes glassy. "Why do you say Jayden is softhearted?"

As Driscoll began to answer, he noticed the red marks on her neck. "Did he… did he lay a hand on you?" he blurted, shocked.

Elyse quickly covered her neck, her face flushing with fear and embarrassment. She tried to deny it, but a painful cough escaped. Driscoll hurriedly poured her water. "Drink this."

After a few sips, she felt better. Driscoll sighed—again. "Forgive me, but I can't excuse his actions, yet he isn't solely to blame."

Elyse frowned, puzzled.

"He's the firstborn," Driscoll explained, "and his parents had impossibly high expectations. He never had a normal childhood, never truly expressed himself, always burdened by responsibility. He became the emotionless robot he's known as. The Owen family's 'profit above all' mantra molded him."

Driscoll smiled sadly. "He's not the heartless man the public believes. But I'm only a butler. You, however, are special to him. It's a shame he can't recognize love."

"What do you mean?" Elyse asked.

"He's been deprived of love and affection. He doesn't know how to navigate his feelings. He was raised in a world of power and greed; that's all he knows. So he seizes what he wants."

Driscoll finished setting the table. "I'm not asking you to forgive him. I hope you'll understand him before making a decision you'll regret."

Elyse chuckled. "I thought you'd ask me to forgive him."

"Feelings are reciprocal. He doesn't understand that. To him, what he wants is his to possess, to keep within his walls."

Driscoll smiled sheepishly. "It's rather childish, isn't it?"