His unwanted wife, the world’s coveted genius by Derk Blaylock

Chapter 471

Chapter 471:

With a resounding bang, Morse and his chair toppled to the floor. “Oh my God!” “What's happening there?” “Why

did that man just punch him?” Sof the customers in the restaurant exclaimed in shock.

The impact of the punch left Morse dazed and disoriented. Before he could gather his senses, Lucas was on him

again, lifting him by the collar as if he weighed nothing and forcefully smashing his head against the table. The

sound reverberated around the room, causing everyone to wince.

No one dared to intervene to help Morse. The restaurant manager, who had crunning at the noise, stopped

dead in his tracks upon recognizing the assailant as Lucas.

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Just then, Belinda emerged from the restroom, her face draining of color at the sight of the chaos. She rushed

over.

“Lucas! What are you doing? Stop it now!” Belinda seized Lucas’ arm in an attempt to pull him away from Morse.

Lucas’ eyebrows were tightly furrowed, his eyes burning with wild rage. He resembled a wild animal on the verge

of an attack. He turned to face Belinda, his lips barely moving as he said in a cold voice, “Ask him what he

slipped into your drink!”

Upon hearing those words, Morse turned ghostly pale. Belinda’s gaze faltered, and she looked at Lucas, her face

filled with shock and confusion. What did he mean by that? Why was he saying that she was his?

Morse, summoning all his strength, managed to rasp, “Mr. Clark, haven't you and Ms. Wright already divorced?”

Lucas’ expression remained impassive, his tone cold and deliberate. “After the divorce, she is my ex-wife. Who

gave you the audacity to lay a hand on her?”

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“I was wrong, Mr. Clark! A moment of foolishness—I swear it won't happen again. Please, sparethis time!”

Morse’s words tumbled out in panicked desperation, his voice trembling.

“Spare you?” Lucas’ lips curled into a sharp, humorless smirk. Suddenly, he released his grip on Morse’s neck.

Morse staggered back, gasping for air. He breathed a sigh of relief, thinking that Lucas had agreed to spare him.

But his relief was short-lived.

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Lucas’ hand moved toward the tainted drink on the table. He lifted the glass and set it in front of Morse, his voice

low and commanding. “Drink it, and you can leave.”

Morse froze, his eyes locked onto the glass as if it were a monster. His pupils dilated in fear, and cold sweat

broke out on his brow.

“Mr. Clark—" he began, his voice a strained whisper.

Lucas cut him off with a sharp glare. “Do | need to pour it down your throat?”

His voice, steady and cold, carried a threat as menacing as the sharpness in his hawk-like eyes.

Morse’s body trembled, his teeth sinking into his lower lip as he fought an internal battle.