Chapter 1598: Chapter 1598

Chapter 1598:

Rhys chuckled, the sound low and indulgent. He rubbed his chest, resigned yet oddly satisfied, before climbing back onto the bed. Leaning over, he pressed a lingering kiss to her forehead.

“Alright, alright. I’ll behave. Goodnight, Lee.”

Without opening her eyes, she simply hummed in response, already drifting into slumber.

By the time Harlee woke up the next morning, Rhys had already arranged a lavish breakfast spread, each dish meticulously prepared and displayed on the table.

Harlee, instantly alert at the sight, wasted no time in freshening up before making her way over.

“Smells divine.”

Over the years, Rhys’ culinary skills had only sharpened, while her taste had grown increasingly refined. Most food was merely sustenance. But meals prepared by Rhys or the Sanderson chefs? That was comfort.

Rhys, ever graceful, served her plate with practiced ease.

“Drink some milk. It’s good for you.”

“Okay.”

She obediently lifted the glass, nodding in satisfaction.

After a while, Rhys rose to his feet.

“Something came up at the company. I’ll see you tonight.”

Harlee nodded mid-bite, lifting a hand in a half-hearted wave.

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The simple gesture tugged at something in Rhys. Just as he reached the door, he turned back, unable to resist. He bent down, pressing a soft kiss to her forehead before finally leaving.

Downstairs, Patrick slumped in the driver’s seat, looking thoroughly exhausted. It wasn’t until Rhys finally emerged in his line of sight that Patrick summoned what little energy he had left. With a heavy exhale, he pressed his foot against the gas pedal, the car lurching forward as if echoing his own exhaustion. The moment Rhys slipped into the passenger seat, he shut his eyes, sinking into the silence as if the weight of the world had settled on his shoulders.

Patrick stole a few glances through the rearview mirror, his grip tightening ever so slightly on the steering wheel. The question burned at the edge of his tongue, restless and insistent, yet he couldn’t bring himself to voice it. Ten agonizing minutes passed, the weight of unspoken words pressing down on him like a lead blanket. Finally, he exhaled a slow breath and dared to ask, “Mr. Green… Is Harlee really acting as President Barry Stevenson’s bodyguard?”

The moment the words left his mouth, Patrick swallowed hard, his throat suddenly dry. He was loyal—unyieldingly so. His devotion to Harlee and Rhys was carved in stone, an oath he’d die before breaking. And yet, survival instincts clawed at him, whispering that one wrong word could very well be his last. He had seen firsthand how thin the line was between trust and silence, between obedience and oblivion.

Patrick sighed. If Harlee wasn’t Barry’s bodyguard, that meant Rhys had been with another woman last night. What should he do?

Patrick wrestled with his decision before finally choosing to align himself with Harlee, even at the risk of Rhys’ potential wrath.

“Mr. Green, regardless of whether the female bodyguard upstairs is Harlee or not, I have compiled a detailed visual record of your interactions with her last night. It’s set to automatically send to Harlee’s email the moment you step into the office.”

After speaking, Patrick avoided further eye contact with Rhys in the rearview mirror. He sat upright, holding the steering wheel firmly, and kept his gaze straight ahead.

Rhys, previously resting with his eyes closed, merely acknowledged with a nonchalant “hmm,” showing little reaction.

At five o’clock in the afternoon, a group arrived at the international private airport.

Barry faced Harlee, with his secretary silently holding a black umbrella behind him.

They were surrounded by a protective circle of bodyguards, multiple layers of security. Even if an assassin could break through, the first shot would only hit this human wall.

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