In the top‑floor VIP ward of a private hospital, Ivo lay in bed, his right arm and right leg both in heavy casts, his face pale as a sheet.
Daphne sat on the sofa beside him, weeping, tears streaming down her face.
I stood several meters away from them, watching them with a cold gaze.
Miles's men were guarding the door to the ward. Two burly men stood like sentinels, staring straight ahead.
Nurses passing through the corridor all gave them a wide berth, afraid of getting into trouble.
Footsteps sounded from the elevator area. A refined middle‑aged couple rushed over.
"Ivo, my son," Ivo's mother, Lydia Caldwell, cried, throwing herself at the bedside and wailing. "Who did this? Who beat you up like this?"
Ivo's father Jett Beck's eyes swept around the room before finally locking onto
