Chapter 226: To Her Apartment

The old woman's question was blunt. Elvis evaded it, feigning incomprehension.

"What are you talking about, Grandma? I don't understand."

"Oh, Elvis, you're still pretending with Grandma. Don't pretend you don't understand. Tell Grandma the truth—can you still... you know?" The old woman asked directly.

Elvis frowned, gloomy and reluctant to answer.

"Elvis, you can't... anymore, right?" she whispered sadly, on the verge of tears. She took his hand and cried into it. "What will I do? Will I ever see my great-grandson?"

Elvis knew his grandmother's sorrow was genuine; his health was failing. But perhaps his reaction to the girl was due to incomplete recovery, or perhaps the maid simply wasn't Olive. Millions of girls existed; even if they resembled Olive, they couldn't be her.

He'd spent a few days in the hospital. After discharge, he'd worked on company documents, feeling profoundly drained.

"Grandma, don't be sad. You can go now; I need a shower."

"Why a shower? Professor Smith is here, waiting," Mrs. Samantha interrupted.

Elvis immediately refused. "Grandma, I have documents to work on later."

Mrs. Samantha insisted, "Elvis, didn't you promise in the hospital to cooperate fully with your treatment?"

"Grandma, I'm not refusing, just postponing it," Elvis said, his tone domineering.

Mrs. Samantha laughed angrily. "Elvis, are you kidding me? Fine, I'll call Olive."

She turned toward the door.

"Grandma?" Elvis pulled her back. "Why call her? Didn't you promise not to contact her?"

Mrs. Samantha snorted. "Didn't you make a promise? Since you won't keep yours, I'll call Olive. She can find a way to treat you; you won't need Professor Smith."

Elvis sighed. He couldn't tell Olive about his condition. If she knew he was impotent, how would she see him?

Chapter 228: To Her Apartment

Elvis, proud and reserved, said, "Grandma, don't call her. I'll get the treatment now." He turned and left the room.

The old woman watched him go, sighing deeply. It would have been wonderful if Olive were there.

Elvis arrived at the treatment room. Professor Smith smiled gently. "Mr. Augustine, I understand your situation. Please lie down; I'll examine you."

Elvis lay on the bed. Professor Smith approached and asked, "Mr. Augustine, shall I remove your pants, or will you?"

Elvis's face was blank. A moment ago, a maid wanted to remove his pants; now, he was being observed by a male professor. He felt terrible.

"Mr. Augustine, let me help you," Professor Smith offered, reaching for his belt.

Instantly, Elvis sat up, lips pursed. He stood and left the room.

Professor Smith was stunned. "Mr. Augustine, where are you going? We haven't started yet!"

Elvis's tall figure had already vanished.

He retrieved his car keys, entered his Rolls-Royce Phantom, started the engine, and drove to North's apartment.

Arriving at North's building, he lowered his window. A curtain obscured the apartment window, but a yellow light shone through. At the Red Villa, even if Olive fell asleep first, she'd leave a lamp for him. Now she was gone, and no one left a lamp.

He leaned back, staring at the window. The gloom and anger in his heart eased slightly.

His phone vibrated, jolting him back to reality. It was Andrew, his secretary.

He answered. Andrew reported, "CEO, Olive is leaving. She resigned from the Privy Council and booked a flight to Imperial City. She'll be leaving Los Angeles for Canada in two days."

Elvis gripped his phone, listening. He knew she would leave, but not this soon.

He ended the call, tossing the phone onto the passenger seat. He opened the car's armrest, took out his sleeping pills, and swallowed four. Sleeping pills were his shortcut to treating insomnia and his mental distress. As long as he slept, he could avoid disturbing her, stay away from her.

Upstairs, in her apartment, Olive had showered. She sat by a reading lamp, studying her mother's medical textbook. The room was quiet. The more she read, the more frightened she became. She felt she'd been studying the wrong books; this one opened a new world. Dean Sebastian was right; ordinary textbooks were insufficient. She was truly the daughter of a medical genius, needing something more profound, more mysterious.