Divorce me I'm done serving you (Ayla) novel Chapter 684

Draven tightened his grip on the umbrella, pressing its sharp tip hard against the man's shoulder.

For a moment, the man assumed Draven simply wanted his attention—maybe to make a threat, maybe to ask what offense had been committed.

He expected words, not violence.

But Draven didn't waste time with introductions or empty threats. Instead, he pressed harder, driving the umbrella's point so deep it nearly punctured flesh. The pain exploded across the man's shoulder, sharp and immediate.

It was only then that dread flooded him. Draven wanted blood, not conversation.

He tried to squirm away, panic fueling him, but the bodyguard's hand on his neck was as heavy as iron. Escape was impossible.

Already cowed by Draven's icy, unyielding presence, the hint of true danger shattered any remaining bravado. His voice trembled as he stammered, "S-Sir, I—I don't think I did anything to offend you, right?"

A sickening sound echoed as the umbrella pierced skin.

The man cried out, sweat pouring down his face.

The tip had stabbed his shoulder.

Draven's gaze was calm, his voice colder than ice. "Think carefully."

Herman had already dug up the man's background. He was worth several million—an impressive sum for most, though nothing to people like Herman. He was new money, a man who'd stumbled into fortune by luck rather than legacy. Flush with success, he'd become arrogant, playing the boss among his friends and chasing women to show off. He craved attention and respect, but his money was new, and his sense of power shallow.

Money never stayed with people like him. Men like these were scum to those like Herman.

Lately, the nouveau riche man's arrogance had swelled, fueled by the endless praise and flattery of his friends. But the instant Draven drove the umbrella into his shoulder, all that bravado evaporated. Draven's hand was still bound in gauze, and as he pressed down, fresh blood seeped through the fabric—yet his face was cold and impassive, betraying no hint of pain.

It was chilling to witness. Draven looked entirely at ease, as if inflicting pain were something he'd done a thousand times before, as if violence was simply part of his nature.

Terror overtook the man in an instant. The pain in his shoulder was sharp and overwhelming.

Still, he told himself Draven was just trying to scare him. He hadn't seen enough of the world.

He tried to get his own revenge, swearing to call the police and teach Draven a lesson.

But things immediately spiraled out of control.

The police ignored his complaints, and that very night, someone went after his company accountant.

After getting his wound treated, he went out to a karaoke bar with friends, venting his anger. He was surrounded by women and drink, but when his phone rang, he picked up with swagger—only to freeze as the news hit him.

His bravado evaporated. He scrambled from the bar, rushing to his company in panic.

...

Draven stayed in Silvoria only two days before news reached him: Troy had arrived in Zheron. Troy was now mixing with the third Flint son and had likely already pinned down Draven's location at Meadowlark Heights. It wouldn't be long before Troy came for him.