Chapter 3 : Who Gave You the Guts

For a while, Philip had no awareness, not even breathing. The pain had taken over his entire nervous system.

Patrick was gripping his neck.

It was only because of Patrick''s bulging-veined hand that Philip''s body didn''t slide down the wall.

Warm liquid flowed from his hairline to the back of his neck. Philip frowned in pain, and when he finally caught his breath, he pushed Patrick away and hoarsely shouted, "What''s wrong with you?"

"Putting on this pitiful act, who would buy it except my parents?"

Patrick''s voice, wrapped in ice, squeezed out from between his teeth, "Too bad the only people in this world who would pity you are already dead."

Because of this venomous statement, Philip''s pushing stopped, his face turning pale. He avoided Patrick''s murderous red eyes, his lips trembling as he tried to explain, "I..."

"Say one more word, and I''ll kill you," Patrick interrupted.

Philip pressed his lips tightly together. He had no doubt about the truth in Patrick''s words at that moment.

If he continued to speak, this enraged person would definitely snap his neck.

But Patrick didn''t seem to intend to let him go just yet.

"Who gave you the guts to put on this act in front of me?"

Patrick asked coldly, his grip on Philip''s neck tightening. His beautiful, always slightly lazy eyes were filled with overwhelming hatred.

Sixteen years old, homeless and wandering the streets, Philip used such a pitiful and heart-wrenching look to trick him into taking him home.

At twenty, Philip drugged his drink, tricked him into bed, and the next day deliberately let his parents find out, using the same look to tell them he wanted to marry him.

This person used that look time and time again to get everything he wanted, and not only did he let a wolf into his house, but he also lost his marriage, and in the end, even ended up with a broken family.

Every time he woke up in the middle of the night, Patrick wished he could travel back in time and cut off the hand he extended to Philip ten years ago.

If he hadn''t acted on a whim and shown unnecessary kindness, his parents wouldn''t have died because of Philip, his brother wouldn''t have been so traumatized by witnessing their deaths that he ended up in a mental institution, and he himself wouldn''t have lost his freedom and everything, trapped by this person by any means necessary.

Patrick didn''t know how deep his hatred for Philip ran, but if he had the chance, he would definitely kill him with his own hands.

Oxygen was being squeezed out of his alveoli bit by bit, the pain of suffocation almost overshadowing the pain in the rest of his body. Philip grabbed Patrick''s wrist, but the other''s hand was like an iron clamp, tightly gripping his throat.

Philip helplessly awaited death. He wasn''t afraid of dying, but he didn''t want to die.

In fact, at the brink of life and death, Philip had ways to save himself, but looking into Patrick''s eyes, he couldn''t say a word.

The halo above turned into patches of gray and white, and Philip thought he might really not escape this time. However, the next second, his body was thrown aside.

Air suddenly rushed into his organs, and Philip instantly let out a heart-wrenching cough.

Patrick''s face still bore a fierce expression. He kicked away the fallen showerhead with a cold, murderous intent and left the bathroom.

It took nearly five minutes for the coughing in the bathroom to gradually subside.

Philip touched his throat with one hand, propped himself up against the wall with the other, and stood up from the floor in a sorry state.

He turned off the shower, wiped away the tears that had flowed from his eyes, and then walked to the mirror.

Blood from the back of his head had somehow smeared onto his ear and the side of his face. Philip looked at himself in the mirror for a while.

He didn''t know what kind of expression he had shown Patrick at that moment, but he thought it must have been very annoying.

Patrick rarely resorted to physical violence, often opting for cold sarcasm instead. The last time he had hit him was four years ago when Patrick''s parents died.

This time, it was clear he had really pushed him too far.

Philip lowered his eyes. Patrick was right; the only person in this world who would pity and care for him was no longer around.

Philip knew this in his heart.

But perhaps because Patrick had humiliated him so much tonight, he actually wanted to ask Patrick to spare a little bit of his heart for him.

"Do you really have to treat me like this?"

"Can you care about my feelings a little?"

But he forgot that the person hated him to the core, and these thoughts he couldn''t voice at the time were indeed a bit far-fetched.

Philip pursed his lips, washed the blood off his hands, and walked out of the bathroom.

Patrick wasn''t in the room.

He went out to look around and ran into the butler at the staircase. The butler was startled by Philip''s bloody appearance and hurriedly asked, "Young master, what happened? Are you hurt?"

Philip didn''t answer, instead asking, "Where''s Patrick?"

"I saw him go out again just now."

Philip remained silent.

"Shall I take you to the hospital?" the butler asked tentatively.

"No need." Philip bypassed the butler, went downstairs, stood in the living room for a moment, and then drove himself to the city hospital.