All the journalists and passersby screamed in fright. Pedestrians immediately scattered, seeking cover as far away as possible. "We’ll hand them over, we’ll hand them over! Please don’t shoot!" Several journalists were so scared they wet their pants, and one even fainted in the middle of the street. "Consider yourselves sensible. Young Master Peary’s affairs aren’t something you lot can pry into." The leading man sneered and fired another shot into the sky. "Keep today’s incident buried deep inside. All of you, pack your bags and get the hell out of Capital Town by tonight." Follow current ɴᴏᴠᴇʟs on 𝙣𝙤𝙫𝙚𝙡~𝙛𝙞𝙧𝙚~𝙣𝙚𝙩 He had barely finished speaking when the sound of police sirens echoed from all around. Over a dozen police cars arrived, swiftly cordoning off the area. From one of the police cars, a captain yelled through a megaphone, "Drop your weapons and raise your hands!" Then, officers exited their vehicles, guns aimed at the group. The leading man in black smirked, glancing at the dozens of guns pointed their way. "Young Master Peary is conducting business. You dare interfere?" The man was exceedingly arrogant. Following his words, the surrounding police officers exchanged uneasy glances. In less than thirty seconds, those officers scrambled back into their cars. The vehicles then made a showy U-turn, drifting as they fled the scene. The name ’Young Master Peary’ carried undeniable weight. In Capital Town, it signified the power to act with impunity. No one dared to utter a word of defiance against him, much less openly oppose him. The journalists cowered on the ground, their legs having turned to jelly, shaking like sieves from fear. They had initially planned, once they returned, to write an article exposing the threats they had just endured. But damn it all! Even the police had scattered like frightened rats merely upon hearing Young Master Peary’s name. These journalists, armed with nothing but pens, lacking power or backing—would they dare? "You lot dare to obstruct Young Master Peary’s men? You truly have some fucking nerve!" the leading man in black couldn’t resist exclaiming. After he finished speaking, he waved to the armed men in black surrounding them. His men, already spoiling for a fight, surged forward at his command. Each of them smirked maliciously, rubbing their hands together in anticipation. "What are you doing?" "AH! Don’t come any closer!" In stark contrast to the chaos outside the Royal Dynasty Hotel, the interior of Maxwell Peary’s car was the epitome of tranquility. Nia Mitchell sat in the passenger seat, occasionally stealing glances at Maxwell Peary, who was driving. Was he still upset about what she had said at the banquet? "Uncle?" Nia Mitchell ventured, carefully observing his expression. "Hmm?" Maxwell Peary turned his head to glance at Nia Mitchell, humming nonchalantly in response. "It’s nothing. I just... called out to you," Nia Mitchell pouted, explaining awkwardly, though her gaze remained fixed on him. He said nothing more, focusing on driving. His dark eyes were fixed on the road ahead, betraying no emotion. Her gaze gradually drifted downward, lingering on the movement of Maxwell Peary’s Adam’s apple—a sight that was both sexy and tempting. Further down was the collar of his white shirt, a stark white against his skin. His black suit jacket exuded an air of solemn composure, radiating an intense aura of success. Her gaze shifted further down, to his simple black trousers, and... um... Why did it look like... right there... cough... it was bulging? Nia Mitchell swallowed hard, her limpid eyes widening as if she had discovered something incredible. She hastily averted her gaze, jerking her head up, only for her eyes to meet Maxwell Peary’s intense, dark gaze, which seemed to burn into her.