Seeing Waylen in such low spirits was a rare occurrence and Harold couldn't resist the urge to provoke him further.

Extending hospitality, Harold poured a glass of wine for Waylen.

“Are you feeling down?" he inquired.

Brandishing a glass of brandy, Waylen swiftly downed its contents in one gulp.

"I'm fine," he curtly replied.

Harold smiled, inching closer to Waylen. He then retrieved his phone and scrolled through his album until he found a particular photograph.

It depicted Rena at the age of 22, peacefully asleep at a dining table.

She appeared more youthful in the image and the background revealed that it wasn't taken at the Gordons' residence.

Waylen squinted, his gaze fixated on the picture.

With a cigarette between his fingers, Harold eagerly revealed, “She used to cook for me and wait for me at night as well. It was not special. Soon enough, she will forget about you and fall in love with Tyrone. She'll cook for him, tie his tie and, perhaps... even marry him."

Harold chuckled softly.

"You're aware of Tyrone's close relationship with her, aren't you?"

Waylen wasted no time and engaged in a direct confrontation with Harold.

The occupants of the private suite consisted of respectable individuals who bore witness to the escalating conflict. When Waylen unleashed his wrath, his icy and noble demeanor truly revealed its ruthless nature.

Being a womanizer, Harold stood no chance against Waylen's superior physical strength and suffered a miserable defeat.

Roscoe happened to be present as well.

He derived amusement from the spectacle but feigned an attempt to intervene, remarking, "Why are you doing this? You know he's already unhappy. I can't believe you're rubbing salt to his wounds."

Harold's intoxication had clearly impaired his judgment.

He sneered, his words dripping with contempt, “Waylen, this is your comeuppance. I may be a despicable person who failed Rena but I genuinely care for her. If she were to choose me now, I would leave everything behind. I would stand by her side even if you tried to kill me. But what about you? You hurt her so deeply for a wretch."

Roscoe couldn't bear to listen any longer. He earnestly advised,

“You're drunk, Harold. Don't speak recklessly."

Harold refused to remain silent, his dissatisfaction mounting.