Betrayed by the Father Reborn in His Rival's Arms novel Chapter 485

Quentin stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows in his study, one hand tucked casually into his pocket, his expression devoid of any discernible emotion. "Understood. Have the legal team prepare the supplemental documents and follow standard procedure."

"But Mr. Prescott, this kind of supplemental documentation demands an agonizing breakdown of every single transaction. It puts us at a massive disadvantage. And if they use this excuse to intentionally stall us—"

"Follow the procedure," Quentin repeated, his tone entirely unchanged. "I will handle the rest."

He hung up the phone and turned around.

Madeline was standing at the study door, holding a glass of water. It was obvious she had overheard the conversation.

"Xavier York is blocking you, isn't he?" she asked. It wasn't a question; it was a statement.

Quentin didn't deny it. He simply walked over, took the glass from her hand, and set it on the nearby table.

Then, he grabbed her wrist and gently pulled her into his embrace.

"It's not a big problem," his voice rumbled from above her.

Deep and steady. "They can stall for a few days at most. He only has so much jurisdiction, and he can't make decisions beyond that scope. If he drags this out, the loss of hundreds of millions of dollars in economic impact will inevitably draw attention from the higher-ups."

Madeline leaned against his chest, listening to his strong, rhythmic heartbeat in silence.

She wanted to tell him that Xavier had come to see her that afternoon.

She wanted to tell him about the ten-million-dollar check and exactly how she had fired back at him.

But as the words reached her lips, she felt they didn't matter anymore.

What mattered was that Xavier had already made his move.

And when Quentin said "it's not a big problem"—she chose to believe him.

But another incident occurred the very next day, shaking her faith entirely.

The Prescott Group had a joint venture in the neighboring city, and Quentin needed to go in person to sign a document.

He brought his bodyguards and secretary, leaving the villa at eight in the morning in a black Maybach.

Less than three miles into the drive, on a state highway leading to the interstate.

Three military-green pickup trucks suddenly swerved out from an intersection, forming a blockade across the road.

The driver slammed on the brakes, the tires screeching agonizingly against the asphalt.

Quentin sat in the backseat, his expression unflinching as he looked straight ahead.

The doors of the three trucks opened simultaneously, and about eight men in military uniform jumped out.

The man leading them was tall, his facial features bearing a slight resemblance to Tristan.

But his features were much sharper and ruthless. The epaulets on his shoulders glinted coldly in the morning light.

It was Jasper York.

The second York son, Penelope's older brother, thirty-one years old, and the Deputy Chief of a regional military command.

He walked over to the Maybach, bent down, and tapped his knuckles against the rear window.

Quentin didn't roll down the window. He merely stared at him through the glass.

Jasper smirked, the smile laced with the arrogant, thuggish swagger unique to a seasoned military man.