Encore of the Avenging Muse (Sylvia and Rupert) novel Chapter 603

Sylvia clapped along, grinning. “Honestly, you didn’t have to say the second part.”

…

After Orson passed Rupert’s message along to Chris, he casually mentioned Rupert’s current state.

As soon as Chris heard, he handed off the event to someone else.

“I’ll go with you to check on him.”

“Yeah.”

The two of them walked outside. The rain was still coming down in buckets.

Orson pulled out an umbrella.

Chris raised an eyebrow. “Orson, always prepared. Classic you.”

“A friend gave it to me—”

With a sharp click, the automatic umbrella snapped open. Both of them stared at the inside of the umbrella and blurted out at the same time:

“Shit.”

“Shit. Actually, an enemy gave it to me,” Orson growled.

Chris squinted up. “Zion’s still salty about you decking him at that party? You sure you wanna use this thing?”

The inside of the umbrella was plastered with a full-body print of Zion, looking way too smug for anyone’s comfort.

Orson took a deep breath to steady himself, trying to channel his professional composure.

“The rain’s insane. Let’s just use it.”

“Sure.”

Chris agreed, though he already looked like he regretted it.

As soon as they raised the umbrella over their heads, both of them felt a chill run down their spines.

The photo inside was holographic—depending on the angle, it changed.

At eye level, Zion was just standing there, but the second they tilted it overhead, the image flickered into one of Zion wildly swinging a belt.

And the belt? It lined up perfectly with the umbrella handle.

Now, holding the umbrella felt disturbingly like holding Zion’s belt.

To make it worse, the handle itself was placed at an awkward spot—too low to be comfortable, too high to be practical.

Zion had definitely done this on purpose to mess with Orson.

Chris made a face. “Didn’t know Zion had such… flair for drama. My eyes need bleach.”

Orson scowled. “You hold it.”

The air around him was cold, heavy with the faint scent of tobacco. It seemed like even the wind couldn’t clear the tension he brought.

Sylvia forced herself to look away and leaned in to finally read the small print.

“It’s nothing,” she said calmly, tapping the back button and choosing a different coffee.

Rupert moved to the machine next to hers and ordered his own.

A breeze tousled his hair, revealing a profile that was unreadable but visibly tired.

Sylvia hesitated, eyes dropping to hide her reaction. But her fingers curled inwards, betraying her anxiety.

“Okay,” Sylvia murmured, nodding.

The coffee machine whirred to life, drowning the awkward silence between them.

After a moment, Sylvia felt she should at least ask, out of politeness, “Is Tristan… doing alright—”

“Mr. Rupert!”

A voice called from the far end of the corridor.