His Last Command Came Back to Kill Him novel Chapter 69

A faint smile lingered on Clive's lips, perfectly calibrated—neither overly affectionate nor entirely distant.

He slowly raised his wrist and checked his watch. "Finished already?"

His tone was calm.

But the implication was a direct challenge.

Standing to the side, Yelena's fingers curled inward. She bit her pale lip and put on a flawlessly innocent expression. "I'm so sorry, I'm really not very good at this. I think I ruined the fun for everyone."

Mrs. Weaver, seated at the mahogany table, reached up to adjust a delicate pearl clip in her hair. Her smile was practiced and diplomatic.

"Oh, not at all! We hadn't even warmed up yet. It's just that Yelena lost quite a bit, and we felt bad taking so much from her. As her elders, we couldn't in good conscience keep the game going."

Her words were sugar-coated, but everyone knew the truth: Mrs. Weaver had been winning hand over fist and didn't want to stop. If she had her way, she'd play until dawn, padding her bank account as much as possible.

But while the winners were eager to keep going, the loser clearly lacked the funds to continue, bringing the game to an awkward standstill.

Clive spoke up, his tone light but deadly. "It's fine."

With just those words, he turned slightly, his gaze falling on Whitley with that same unreadable expression.

"Honey, why don't you play a few more rounds with the ladies? Let them have a good time."

His use of "honey" was so natural and intimate, painting the picture of a perfectly devoted couple.

He was always meticulous about maintaining their public image.

The moment he said it, Mrs. Weaver's eyes lit up, her smile suddenly entirely genuine. She was thrilled.

Everyone in their circle knew Whitley was notoriously awful at cards.

Having her at the table was basically guaranteed free money. Who would turn down a sure thing?

Standing nearby, Vivienne silently observed her son.

Clive was calculating and sharp; he knew exactly how terrible his wife was at this game.

Yet here he was, practically throwing her back into the shark tank to hand over cash. She had no idea what he was plotting.

A calculated move to make the women eventually sour on Whitley.

Clive stared at Whitley. "Two choices: transfer the money to cover the last round, or sit back down and play."

Whitley scoffed.

He was backing her into a corner.

Fine, she'd play. Even if she lost, it wasn't her pride on the line, and it was better than paying out of pocket right now.

She yanked out the chair and sat down, grabbing the tiles with a resigned, screw-it attitude.

Vivienne frowned slightly but didn't say anything.

Her son had always done things his own way.

The game restarted. Shuffling, building the wall, drawing tiles—the movements flowed smoothly.