Chapter 437: Elvis, the Resentful Husband

He pointed the gun at himself, telling her not to leave. She turned her back and walked away, never looking back. He pulled the trigger. “Bang…” Elvis’s eyes snapped open. He awoke from a dream, his forehead slick with cold sweat, his clothes drenched. His chest heaved, and his sluggish pupils sharpened. He heard Dr. Kellerman’s gentle voice: “President Augustine, are you alright? Congratulations, you’ve recovered all your memories, but are these memories what you want?” Elvis covered his bloodshot eyes and slowly closed them.

At the Red Villa, Olive, the old lady, and Betty finished an hour of exercise. Olive showered and emerged at nine o’clock, but Elvis hadn’t returned. He’d said he was going back to the company. Why was he so late? She picked up her phone to call him, but a message from North arrived. The photo showed Elvis at a bar, drinking. North’s message followed: “Olive, did you argue with Mr. Augustine?” Olive replied with a question mark. North sent another message: “Oh my, Mr. Augustine is drinking heavily! Hurry and bring him home. The women here are eyeing him like hungry tigers.”

Another photo arrived, showing elaborately dressed women at the bar, all focused on Elvis. Olive bit her lip. She didn’t know what he was doing. Why was he drinking? Confused and angry, she didn’t reply.

At the bar, Elvis sat at the counter, drinking wine. His black shirt sleeves were rolled up twice, revealing an expensive watch on his muscular wrist. The bar’s bright lights rotated above him, illuminating his handsome face. Empty bottles sat on the table, and his deep eyes held a hint of drunkenness. Peterson watched warily, “Young master, drink less. It’s getting late. Let’s go back.”

“What time is it?” Elvis asked.

“It’s nine o’clock.”

Nine o’clock—very late. Elvis checked his phone—no messages or calls from Olive. He poured himself another drink, his lips curving into a lonely line. He muttered, “I’m not coming back. She doesn’t care about me anyway. She’s busy saving lives, with Grandma and Betty. She doesn’t want to be with me!”

Peterson was stunned. His young master sounded… like a wife resenting her husband. No, this was definitely not the sharp young master he knew! He was just drunk, certainly! “Young master,” Peterson said, “should I call Miss Hart?”

Elvis glanced at him, a little arrogantly. “Why should you call her?”

“To bring you home.”

Elvis straightened his back. “I didn’t tell you to fight, but if you want to, call her. Tell her I’m drunk and need a ride.”

Peterson quickly called Olive. Her phone rang at the Red Villa. She answered, and Peterson’s voice came through: “Miss Hart, the young master is drunk at the bar. Please come get him.”

Olive frowned. “I’m not going,” she said. The speakerphone was on; her words reached Elvis’s ears. His eyes narrowed. Peterson wanted to laugh but held back, feeling sorry for his young master. Olive didn’t want him. Peterson said seriously, “Miss Hart, are you sure? He’s drunk, and there are beautiful women around him. If you don’t come, one of them might take him home. What if he loses his purity…his reputation?” He glanced at Elvis, hoping for praise.

Elvis raised an eyebrow. “You’re amazing.”

Olive’s clear voice came from the phone, “If your young master is really raped, I’m sorry, but I can’t save him; I’m not a police officer. Call 911.” She hung up.

Peterson stared blankly. “Young master, Miss Hart is heartless! She completely ignores you!”

Elvis’s eyes were icy. “Shut up! If you don’t speak, no one will think you’re stupid!”

Elvis, drunk, went to a presidential suite and sat on the sofa, rubbing his temples. The dim light cloaked his tall, straight figure, making him seem cold, elite, mysterious, and powerful. The door clicked open, and Tiana entered…