Chapter 897: Chapter 897



The family had seemed oddly familiar to him.

Could they have been discussing him when the girl mentioned her brother?

His thoughts were a jumbled mess.

Seizing the moment while the family was away, Ryland hastily wiped away any evidence of his presence and slipped away from the ranch in silence.

Two days of tiresome travel later, Ryland landed in Kebrea, exhausted yet vigilant.

As soon as he disembarked, a group of Wade’s men closed in on him.

“Mr. Potter, I regret the inconvenience.”

Ryland found himself coerced into a waiting car.

This time, he didn’t fight back. There were too many questions demanding answers, and he had to see Wade.

The car wound its way through the dense jungle and up a mountain, finally halting at a formidable iron gate guarded by men armed with guns.

Ryland, an infrequent visitor, was unknown to the guards. One of them, casually chewing gum, gestured for a toll.

The driver retorted sharply, “What’s wrong with you? This is our boss’s son!”

Meeting Ryland’s intense, piercing gaze, the guard quickly grasped the gravity of his mistake.

Though merely a teenager, Ryland exuded an innate authority, a trait undoubtedly instilled by Wade.

gαℓησν𝒆𝓁s․com takes you on a journey “My apologies! I’ll open the gate this instant!”

With the window rising, the driver threw Ryland a sheepish smile.

“Sorry about that. He’s new to the job.”

Ryland remained stoic. “Where’s my dad?”

“He’s ventured up the mountain for an inspection. He’s expected to return by tonight.”

The mood within the confines of the car shifted, becoming charged with a cold tension.

Consigned to a cramped, dimly lit room for a period of solitary reflection—a practice Ryland knew all too well—he sat in patient silence, waiting for Wade’s return.

As twilight deepened, soft flickers of light danced outside. Wade’s approach was signaled by distant shouts of “Mr. Potter.”

He entered the small room to find Ryland perched on the bed, his fingers deftly assembling a revolver.

“You’re looking thinner than before,” Wade observed, closing the door behind him. “They didn’t treat you well, did they? Let me guess—you’ve been living off scraps of bread lately?”

With a definitive snap, Ryland secured the gun, its silver barrel casting a menacing gleam as it aimed straight at Wade.

Unfazed, Wade stepped forward, his demeanor calm. “That’s not quite correct.”

He gently corrected Ryland’s grip on the gun.

From the corner of his eye, Ryland caught glimpses of Wade’s features—the silver threads in his hair and the prominent scar snaking across his neck, a stark reminder of a life-threatening past ordeal.

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