The Unwanted Daughter: When Love Comes Too Late Chapter 327: Raging Fury

"You shameless homewrecker, how dare you seduce my wife!"

The shocking accusation had barely settled before a man suddenly rushed out. He was carrying a bucket of thick red liquid and hurled it straight at Preston.

Sticky, foul-smelling blood splattered across Preston from head to toe, covering his face until his features could hardly be seen.

The room went silent.

Then, pointing right at Preston, the man roared, "I've been married for over twenty years. We used to be happy, but you ruined everything! You seduced my wife, and now she wants to divorce me. You filthy scoundrel—you'll burn in hell for destroying my marriage!"

His furious shouts were heard by the stunned crowd, and the place instantly erupted into chaos.

Meanwhile, Preston just stared blankly at the blood soaking his clothes, frozen in shock.

His assistant, watching from behind, nearly fainted.

Having worked with Preston for years, he knew better than anyone how extreme Preston's obsession with cleanliness was. And now, in front of a huge audience—and live cameras, no less—he was drenched in blood.

The assistant didn't even dare step closer, afraid Preston might explode at any second.

But the man wasn't done. He kept shouting, "You filthy homewrecker! You deserve that bloodbath for the dirt you've done! If you love stealing wives so much, why not go sell yourself on the street?"

The crude insults stung, and everyone around snapped out of their shock, quickly raising their phones to record.

The man claimed he'd been married for over twenty years, which meant his wife was probably in her forties. Preston was only in his twenties.

The idea of him going after a woman nearly twice his age was difficult to believe.

He had questionable taste!

Whispers spread quickly. People zoomed in with their cameras, capturing every flicker of Preston's reaction.

Finally, after a long silence, Preston came back to himself.

He stood stiffly, his hands trembling in the air with nowhere to go. He stared at the man screaming at him with his blood-covered face.

"You're digging your own grave!"

Preston suddenly grabbed a glass from the table, ready to rise to his feet.

His eyes burned with a fury so sharp it seemed he might rip the man apart with his bare hands.

Even with his striking looks, Preston had never seemed frightening before—not even when his eyes burned with rage.

But now, drenched in blood with only his eyes, nose, and mouth visible through the crimson mess, his expression sent shivers down spines.

The livestream chat exploded. Even online viewers jumped back in shock at the sight.

The man who had been screaming accusations suddenly faltered, instinctively stepping back. His fury drained away the moment Preston's blood-covered glare locked onto him.

Fortunately, Preston's assistant acted quickly. He leaned close, his voice low and urgent. "Too many eyes are on you—both here and online. Let me get you out of here."

He waved the bodyguards to come forward at once. They formed a tight wall around Preston, rushing him out of the room.

But the damage was already done. Dozens of phones had captured the scene from every angle.

Within thirty minutes, the footage had spread across the internet like wildfire.

Fast-working bloggers even turned it into mocking remix videos.

Preston had gone viral. His name was trending higher than some of the biggest celebrities.

Later, after scrubbing himself raw in the restroom, he finally emerged, only to find his assistant waiting nervously with a tablet in hand.

A bad feeling twisted in Preston's stomach. He snatched the tablet.

And just his luck—the video playing showed him drenched in blood, clutching a glass like he was about to attack, only to be restrained at the last second by his assistant, edited into a mocking clip.

Preston's face darkened instantly. With a furious swing, he hurled the tablet to the floor.

CRASH!

Shards flew everywhere, but the anger in his chest only grew hotter.

"Find out who did this! I want a name—now!" he roared.

Never in his life had he suffered such humiliation.

His assistant, already anticipating the outburst, had ordered an investigation in advance.

Carefully, he reported, "We've traced it back. It was Ronald."

He didn't dare call him Mr. Ronald under Preston's burning glare.

The name didn't surprise Preston.

Of course—it could only be him. That bastard had always been the one bold enough to scheme against him.

Preston's eyes narrowed, his voice venomous. "I'll make him pay for this—ten times over, a hundred if I must."

The assistant lowered his head in silence.

His assistant kept his head bowed, saying nothing. He didn't dare admit the truth—that while they had traced the scheme back to Ronald, there was no real evidence to pin it on him.

In fact, it was likely that Ronald had left the trail on purpose, making sure Preston would find it.

The real goal wasn't just to frame him. It was to humiliate him even further.

But that was something the assistant couldn't say now. Not unless he wanted to splash gasoline on an already raging fire.