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“What is she doing on the rooftop?” Sylvan Cheney’s heart skipped a beat, his brow furrowed, tension wrinkling his forehead.

” Jasy bought some wind chimes and said she was going to hang them up on the rooftop.” Chale Cheney explained.

Relief spread across Sylvan’s face as he rubbed his temple where a quick pulse had started throbbing.

“Remember to have your meals on time, Dad. Don’t tire yourself too much.”

“I know.” Sylvan murmured, a slight smile tugging at the corners of his lips. Chale missed his father Sylvan a lot, but he understood that Sylvan was busy and he couldn’t always cling to his side.

Now that Jasy was here, it was the same situation.

After hanging up the phone, Sylvan lit up a cigarette.

It was just lunchtime in Edinburgh, where the local time lagged behind China’s. Sylvan stood at the window, deep in thought.

The exquisite black suit he was wearing was perfectly tailored to his trim physique, trousers neatly pressed, every button glinting in the sunlight and shimmering with gloss.

Smoke wrefted around his angular face, adding an extra touch of iciness.

His eyebrows were knitted together, lips slightly pursed.

After a while, he made a call back home.

“Investigate when Jasmine and Lana got acquainted.”

“Yes, Mr. Cheney.” The voice on the other end responded.

Just then, Charles Mcintosh walked in.

“Mr. Cheney, it’s time for your meal.”

“Alright.”

Sylvan put down his phone, stubbed out his cigarette and strode out of the room.

An elderly man with snow-white hair, stark facial expression and deep-seated eyes was seated at the dining table.

The oversized hospital gown he was wearing made him look even more gaunt and aged.

But despite this, it couldn’t mask the sharp edges and vivacity lurking in his eyes.

“Grandfather.” Sylvan entered the room.

“Mmm.” Spencer Childe didn’t raise his eyes, responding curtly.

Sylvan took the seat across his grandfather, maintaining a calm facade.

Even though they were related by blood, they had barely met since the death of Qiana Childe.

Or more accurately, Spencer didn’t have much affection for Sylvan. “Grandfather, how are you feeling today?” Sylvan asked.

“I’m not dying yet, you didn’t have to come all the way here.”

Spencer’s statement was laced with intense alienation.

He saw his grandson as similar to the latter’s father: both eyeing his wealth and land with greed.

If Teagan Cheney was brazen about his desires, Sylvan was more insidious and restrained.

But, their motives were identical.

Sylvan especially had always eyed the airport project, and the piece of land Spencer held was supremely suitable.

“Grandfather, let’s eat.”

Sylvan refilled his bowl, holding back unnecessary words at the dinner table.

Spencer picked up his bowl, his lips curling coldly.

For a moment, a heavy silence engulfed the sickroom.

Nobody spoke.

Charles stood mutely by the side, waiting in silence.

“Have you visited your mother since you returned home?” Spencer asked.

“Yes.” Sylvan nodded in affirmation.

Spencer’s eyes welled up, reddening slightly at the rims, a profound grief hidden within.

He only had one daughter and he loved her dearly.

Now, he was laden with the sadness of outliving his black-haired daughter, Qiana Childe was no more.

Sylvan was also lost in memories.

He was fourteen when, in spring, his mother had committed suicide from postpartum depression by throwing herself into a lake.

As her son, he failed to prevent this tragedy.

He thus knew that Spencer didn’t harbor much affection for him, his grandson.

“And Yolanda? Is she alright?”

“She has Chris by her side, taking care of her.”

“Chris?” Spencer furrowed his brow, “What about you? Shouldn’t you be with her?”

“I’m in Landon.”

“Damnit!”

Spencer slammed down his chopsticks in rage. A loud “clap” echoed in the room, and a tense silence followed.

Sylvan didn’t show any perceptible change of expression.

Spencer’s face turned livid, his lips trembling with anger.