Tyrone raised his glass and replied, “Thank you, Mr. Fowler."

With the atmosphere between them seemingly harmonious, the organizer continued the discussion about the daytime forum topics with a pleasant smile.

The organizer continued, "In recent years, we've all witnessed the economic challenges. Industrial growth is evidently dwindling, profits are diminishing, and losses are on the rise, particularly in areas with a bleak long-term supply outlook. Production levels are increasing, impinging on our competitive edge. In terms of technological innovations..."

As the organizer delved into the presentation, Tyrone sensed something amiss deep within him.

His fists clenched involuntarily, and he cast a desperate look toward Blayze.

A burning desire coursed through him, and he felt ensnared.

Blayze, noting Tyrone's inner turmoil, turned to him, and their gazes locked.

A knowing smile curled at the corners of Blayze's lips, and their eyes held each other in silent communion.

Tyrone clenched his lips tightly and averted his gaze. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Sierra sitting in the nearby resting area, her gaze briefly flickering in his direction before she quickly turned away.

Tyrone speculated that he might be drugged when Blayze proposed a toast.

However, he kept the glass of wine in his hand all the time.

Then, it struck Tyrone. When he'd walked in from the corridor, a waiter had approached him with a tray and offered a glass of red wine...

There was something amiss with that waiter!

The organizer remained oblivious to the simmering tension between Tyrone and Blayze, continuing his discourse.

Tyrone excused himself, saying, “I'm sorry, I need to use the restroom."

The organizer nodded, and Blayze, appearing concerned, suggested, "Mr. Blakely doesn't look well. He must be feeling fatigued."

The organizer realized his long-windedness and said with an apologetic smile, “My apologies, I've been speaking for quite some time. Ben, kindly take Mr. Blakely upstairs to rest."

Ben, the organizer's secretary, stepped forward.

“That's not necessary..." Tyrone wanted to decline.

The organizer insisted, “Well, Mr. Blakely, rooms had been arranged for all distinguished guests. Please, take a rest. Ben, please escort him."