Chapter 201: Are you tired of living?

Elvis turned and walked away. Olive heard his receding footsteps. He left the Red Villa late, and wouldn't return. Olive closed her eyes, then opened them again to darkness. Her sight was failing.

She reached for a silver needle on the table. Without hesitation, she inserted it into an acupuncture point, attempting to extract the poison. The poison was too potent; the treatment was ineffective. Olive curled up beside the bed, hugging her knees.

She still couldn't believe Elvis would divorce her. She wouldn't divorce him! But the poison was strong. The final formula remained elusive, Mr. Augustine remained unsaved, and the poison was affecting her vision. If she went blind, how could she continue her practice?

Olive felt intensely cold in her thin pajamas. She missed Elvis's warm embrace, longed for his presence. Lowering her head, she buried her pale face in her knees. Her lashes trembled; tears streamed down her cheeks.

In the luxurious KissLand bar, Elvis sat on a sofa, a bottle of wine in his hand, numerous empty bottles scattered on the table. Harry entered.

"Damn it, bro, why are you drinking so much?"

Elvis glanced at him, a decadent, hoarse smile playing on his handsome brows. "I'm getting a divorce. Returning to singlehood."

"Wait, what? All of LA knows you adore Olive. Why the sudden divorce?" Harry exclaimed incredulously, sitting opposite him. "But honestly, bro, your marriage won't satisfy your father. He wants you to marry Crystal Robert, the daughter of Imperial's richest man. She's waiting for you. Finish having fun in LA, return to Imperial, inherit the business empire, and marry Crystal."

Elvis remained emotionless, continuing to drink.

"Bro, drinking alone is boring. We have beautiful girls here. I'll call some over."

Elvis glared. "Get out!"

Harry, surprised by Elvis's solitude—most patrons requested women—quickly obeyed. Elvis continued drinking. The door opened; Pamela entered. Days earlier, humiliated, she had kept a low profile, secretly plotting.

She approached Elvis. "Mr. Augustine," she whispered.

Drunk, he didn't respond. "Mr. Augustine, I'll take you to your room." She supported him, guiding him from the luxurious room to his presidential suite.

In the suite, Pamela laid Elvis on the bed. Admiring his handsome features, she began to unbutton his shirt. Halfway, her face flushed, her heart racing. As she reached for the last button, a hand pulled her close.

Her breath hitched. Elvis had opened his eyes, his drunken gaze on her face. Pamela felt fear and nervousness; he was powerful and wealthy.

"Elvis…" she stammered.

He pulled her into his arms. She fell against him, inhaling his scent, a mixture of alcohol and tobacco. It felt like a dream; she'd fantasized about this since she first saw him.

"Mr. Augustine," she murmured tenderly.

He murmured Olive's name, his embrace dispelling the smile from Pamela's face. He mistook her for Olive. Regardless, she wouldn't miss this opportunity. She moved her hand to his waist.

"Mr. Augustine, you're drunk. Let me help you undress."

He didn't refuse, burying his face in her hair. Suddenly, his eyes snapped open. Pamela lay on the bed, mortified.

Elvis stood, looking down at her coldly. "Pamela, who allowed you in? Are you tired of living?"

Pamela's body went numb. She looked at his terrifying face and whispered, "Mr. Augustine, you were drunk. I brought you here. You mistook me for Olive."