Chapter 265 Mr. Russell, What a Rare Guest

Chapter 265 Mr. Russell, What a Rare Guest

Edward picked up his suitcase, turned, and walked through the boarding gate without looking back.

Mark stood frozen in place, clutching the ticket in his hand, watching Edward's figure gradually disappear into the depths of the boarding corridor.

That silhouette was remarkably upright, like a tree that had been battered by wind for so very long, finally ceasing to sway.

But he, too, vanished from Mark's sight.

...

When the car left the Majestic City downtown area, the sky suddenly darkened.

Heavy gray clouds hung low, as if ready to rain at any moment yet stubbornly refusing to fall, only shrouding the entire countryside in a leaden silence.

Edward leaned back in his seat, turning his head to watch the rapidly retreating tree shadows outside the window, his face expressionless.

The car turned onto a private road paved with neat gray stone bricks, flanked on both sides by meticulously trimmed hedges.

Behind the hedges, every few dozen yards stood a person in a black uniform, walkie-talkie clipped to their waist, earpiece in their ear, their gaze sweeping over this unfamiliar vehicle like a hawk.

Further ahead, the estate's outer wall gradually emerged from behind the trees.

It was a stone wall at least three or four stories high, its top embedded with dense rows of spikes, surveillance cameras mounted at regular intervals along the crest, their red indicator lights blinking beneath the overcast sky.

The entire estate resembled a grim fortress, entrenched in this desolate countryside. From a distance, it looked less like some aristocratic mansion and more like a silent prison.

The car stopped in front of the main gate.

The iron gate was wrought, cast with intricate family crest patterns. Two guards stood on either side, gun holsters openly displayed at their waists, spare magazines strapped to their calves.

Rumor had it that the Howard family's men weren't ordinary bodyguards—they were former mercenaries who could snap a person's neck with one hand.

Edward pushed open the car door and stepped out.

"Stop." A guard stepped forward, pressing his palm against Edward's chest. "Name. Business."

Edward glanced at him and spoke flatly.

"Tell your master Charles that my name is Edward. When he hears it, he'll be interested."

The guard looked at him strangely, as if sizing up an intruder who didn't know his place.

Then he turned, walked aside, spoke a few low words into his walkie-talkie, and listened silently to the response in his earpiece.

A few seconds later, he returned, his expression shifting slightly.

Unexpectedly, their master was actually willing to see this uninvited guest.

"Follow me."

The iron gate slowly opened. Edward stepped inside, and two guards immediately flanked him on either side, beginning to pat him down.

From top to bottom, not an inch of fabric was spared. Even the buttons on his cuffs were unfastened and checked, his shoe soles felt over repeatedly.

Edward held his arms slightly out, allowing them to handle him.

After the search confirmed he posed no danger, he was led down a long stone path.

At the end of the road stood the estate's main building—an old castle-style structure built of gray stone. Pushing through the door, the entrance hall was astonishingly large, with a vaulted ceiling three stories high, hung with several wrought-iron chandeliers emitting dim yellow light.

A fire burned in the fireplace, yet the flames seemed unable to dispel the pervasive gloom filling the room.

In the center of the hall, a man stood with his back to Edward before the fireplace, holding a glass of red wine, gazing down at the flames.

Hearing footsteps, the man turned around.

The moment Edward's gaze fell on his face, his pupils contracted slightly.

He was too young.

Edward had heard Jennifer mention Andrew countless times.

When she was raving, cursing, lucid, or talking in her sleep—her mouth repeated this name over and over.

In her descriptions, Andrew was a devil, a tyrant, an older, sinister controller she both loved and hated.

In Edward's imagination, this person should have been a middle-aged man approaching his prime, heavy-jowled, with vicious eyes—at least considerably older than himself.

But the man before him appeared to be in his early thirties at most, only three or four years older than Edward himself, and strikingly handsome.

Sharp features, a high-bridged nose, light brown hair combed impeccably, a half-smile playing at the corners of his mouth—he looked refined and elegant, like a young attorney fresh from some prestigious law school, or a cultured collector.

"Mr. Russell." Andrew approached with a smile, his tone as warm as if greeting a long-lost friend.

"What an unexpected guest. You're the most surprising person I've met this month. Please, sit."

He gestured, and immediately someone emerged silently from the shadows, brought a cup of tea, and retreated just as quietly.

Edward, however, didn't sit. He simply looked at Andrew and spoke directly.

"Before we begin today's conversation, I think I should ask you—what should I call you?"

Edward paused, his gaze sweeping over Andrew.

"The esteemed master of the Howard family? Mr. Charles? Or... the former street thug Andrew, who bided his time, went undercover for ten years, killed his own boss to rise to power, and transformed himself into the oil tycoon head of the Howard family?"

The air in the hall suddenly froze.

The smile on Andrew's face stiffened for an instant.

But quickly, he smiled again.

"Names are external things. What you call someone, what you're called—none of it matters." He walked up to Edward, extending a glass of red wine.

"What matters is that you can sit here and talk to me. Isn't that right?"

Edward didn't take the wine.

"Then I'll call you Andrew. I don't like beating around the bush."

"Of course." Andrew withdrew the glass, took a sip himself, and sat down on the sofa, crossing one leg.

"So, Mr. Russell, traveling all this way from Emerald City to Majestic City, condescending to visit my humble abode—what brings you here?"

"I came to find you for one thing." Edward said. "Jennifer's escape from the Garcia family—did you help her?"

Andrew's hand holding the wine glass paused, then the corners of his mouth curved upward.

He showed not the slightest displeasure at being questioned. Instead, as if hearing an interesting question, he brought the glass to his lips for a sip, then leisurely leaned back against the sofa.

"Yes." He admitted readily.

"Though I was deported and permanently banned from setting foot in your country, planting a few operatives there is still quite simple for me."

Edward's fingers slowly clenched at his sides, his teeth grinding.

"Why?"

Andrew tilted his head, looking at Edward's tense face, and suddenly laughed.

"For Jenna, of course."

Edward's pupils contracted sharply as he stepped forward abruptly.

"What's your intention?"

"No particular intention." Andrew swirled the wine in his glass. "I simply find her displeasing."

His tone was casual, as if commenting on a dish that didn't suit his taste.

"A woman I set my sights on has never dared refuse me. But not only did she refuse, she teamed up with Ethan and put me in the hospital. I lost three men. Three."

His fingers tapped lightly on the armrest.

"So using Jennifer's hand to give her a little punishment—quite cost-effective, really."

"You lunatic!" Edward hissed, wishing he could tear Andrew apart right then and there.

Andrew didn't even bat an eye.

He set the wine glass on the coffee table, folded his hands on his knees, lifted his head, and looked at Edward with amusement.

"Mr. Russell, if you flew all this way across borders just to say this, then I'm afraid there's really no need for us to continue this conversation. I'm a man who repays every slight. You know this. Having known Jennifer for so long, you must have heard her talk about me plenty, haven't you?"