Two days later, just as Cassandra had said, they returned to Cambridge.
It was as if nothing had happened. Cassandra continued attending classes, while Tony lay around in the rented house with nothing to do, waiting for her to return from class so they could "try again."
Actually, they had tried many times over the past two days. The result? At least they had ruled out the painkillers as the culprit.
Tony loved her too much. Every time he looked into her eyes and at her face, it felt as though their souls were connected. Then he would shudder, and that was it.
Still, there had been some improvement. He had gone from less than three minutes to being able to last three minutes now. She said it was the result of training, and that one day he would make it to five minutes.
Yet Tony could not bring himself to feel happy. He began reflecting on whether he had played too wildly in the past. Was there something wrong with his body?
Then, just as he lay on the bed clutching a bottle of liquor and wallowing in anxiety, the door to the rental house was kicked open!
A man with meticulously combed white hair and a mustache entered with a group of bodyguards. There was worry as well as anger in his eyes when he looked at Tony.
"Dad?" Tony clutched the bedsheet over his chest like a wife caught cheating.
Howard grabbed Tony's shirt and pants from beside the bed and threw them into his face. "Get dressed! You're coming with me!"
Naturally, he was in no mood to be polite. Deathstroke had been harassing him with satellite calls these past few days, constantly reporting Tony's performance.
Two minutes six seconds, two minutes ten seconds, two and