The Prison-Made Queen novel Chapter 830

"You're already at rock bottom, and you're still clinging to your pathetic, worthless pride?"

His rapid-fire, vicious insults acted like red-hot needles driving straight into Clive's eardrums, tearing whatever was left of his dignity to shreds.

All the humiliation, resentment, and fury he had suppressed over the past few weeks ignited like a powder keg, detonating in a catastrophic explosion.

The last thread of his sanity violently snapped.

"Shut the fuck up!"

With a feral scream, Clive lunged at Milo like an arrow unleashed from a bow.

Summoning every ounce of strength he had left, he aimed a brutal punch squarely at Milo's face!

Milo had been too busy basking in the thrill of degrading him to anticipate that this sickly, fragile-looking man would suddenly explode into violence.

Caught completely off guard, he took the heavy blow straight to the bridge of his nose. An agonizing, blinding pain shot straight to his brain, causing tears and mucus to pour down his face instantly.

He let out a pathetic howl, clutching his nose in agony.

The pain, mixed with the utter humiliation of being sucker-punched, instantly wiped the smug smirk off his face, replacing it with raw, unadulterated fury. He glared at Clive, murderous intent in his eyes.

"Fuck! You little bitch, I gave you an inch and you took a mile! You dare lay a hand on me?"

"Don't just stand there! Beat him! Beat him to a bloody pulp!"

Blood dripped steadily from his chin, staining the pale collar of his shirt an eye-catching, vibrant red.

Seeing the blood threw him into a state of panic. He frantically tried to wipe it away with his sleeve, but he only managed to smear it, coating half his face and the back of his hands in crimson.

Having gained the upper hand, and seeing that Clive was too weak to fight back, Milo smiled triumphantly. He bent down, grabbing Clive by his ruined, bloodstained collar, intent on dragging the pathetic loser up for another round of humiliation.

But he was so caught up in his victory that he completely failed to notice the fresh scratches on his arm—the ones Clive had just left—which were now slowly weeping blood.

Choking as his collar tightened, Clive frantically shoved him away. His hand, slick and dripping with his own infected blood, pressed firmly and perfectly against the fresh, open wounds on Milo's arm.

The sticky, warm sensation of blood met raw, broken skin, bringing a strange, sickening chill.