Although they did not speak, they knew that it was already past midnight when they fell asleep.
No one could remain calm after such a thing had happened.
Early the next morning, Marcellus sent a driver to send Beryl back to school. She still had classes to attend and could not be delayed.
As for himself, he drove to the old house of his family. When the car drove into the courtyard, even the housekeeper was shocked and looked at him in disbelief. "Young, Young Master?"
Marcellus raised his eyes and asked expressionlessly, "Where's my grandfather."
"Sir. Perkins is drawing in the study."
Drawing?
Marcellus sneered. When he was eight years old, he accidentally passed by the study and saw Sir. Perkins drawing. His strokes were vigorous, and the character in the painting was also very vivid, but he didn't draw with paint.
He had used someone else's blood to draw a painting for his opponent to see. This cruel method was deeply imprinted in his heart and would not be erased no matter how long it had been.
He frowned and went straight into the house without saying anything.
He strode into the study with his head held high and knocked on the door three times impatiently. When he pushed the door open and went in, Sir. Perkins did not look surprised at all, as if he had already known it was him.
"Marcellus."
Marcellus was not in the mood to joke around. He threw the car key on the table with a loud bang and got straight to the point. "Let's talk about what happened yesterday."
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