Andrew's voice turned cold as he said, "You old pervert, you don't even realize you're terminally ill. If you don't get the right treatment within three days, you'd better start picking out your coffin."

Ernest scoffed. "Are you trying to intimidate me? You probably don't know that I've trained in martial arts since childhood—my muscles are harder than steel. Terminally ill? You must be out of your mind."

Andrew replied calmly, "Believe it or not, in three days, you'll be suffering horrible pain, wishing you were actually dead."

Natasha caught on quickly and chimed in, "Ernest, you might not know this, but Mr. Lloyd is a doctor. If he says something's wrong with your health, there must be a serious issue. You should probably hear him out—what's the harm in that?"

Ernest seemed to have wavered. He had initially dismissed Andrew's words as nonsense, but besides his greed, womanizing, and vanity, Ernest had one other defining trait—he was terrified of death.

At the slightest he