Chapter 218

Chapter 218

Rupert held up one hand. "This much."

Elowen glanced at it without so much as a frown. "Fine. When do you need it?"

"The sooner the better. This matter is best handled sooner rather than later. The longer we drag it out, the more likely something will go wrong."

Elowen lifted her glass and drained the remaining liquor in one gulp.

The liquor burned down her throat, warming her stomach, yet leaving her heart ice cold. "Then it's settled. I'll wait for your news."

The two clinked glasses.

The sharp clink of glass on glass rang out, particularly jarring in the quiet corner.

Over the following days, Elowen and Rupert met frequently.

They always chose secluded places—late-night parking lots or deserted suburban parks.

Each meeting lasted no more than half an hour. They'd say what needed saying and leave, leaving no traces.

Elowen always wore a mask and hat, bundled up tightly, afraid of being recognized.

Rupert handled planning and execution. Elowen provided the money.

She withdrew cash, packed it into black plastic bags, and handed it to him in deserted locations at night.

The money came from her private accounts, leaving no traceable records.

For extra safety, she had spread the withdrawals across several banks over several days.

"Enough?"

Rupert counted it and nodded, his eyes gleaming with greed in the darkness. "Enough. I found two people who are experienced. They work for money, ask no questions, and keep their mouths shut. After it's done, they'll take the money and disappear. No one will find them."

Elowen frowned. "Are they reliable? They won't turn on us later?"

"Even if they're not reliable, it doesn't matter." Rupert sneered. "After it's done, they'll take the money and run. Who'll know who gave the orders? Even if they're caught, they don't know who we are."

Elowen considered this and nodded. "When will you act?"

Rupert glanced around and lowered his voice.

The suburban park was deserted, with only the rustle of wind through the treetops.

"Next Wednesday is the anniversary of Harper's mother's death. She'll definitely go to sweep the grave that day."

Elowen's eyes lit up. "You want her to see it with her own eyes?"

Rupert nodded, a cruel smile curling at the corner of his mouth. "Let her see it with her own eyes. That kind of shock, that kind of pain—it'll take her a long time to recover. The more she cares, the harder it will be for her to bear. By then, her condition will definitely be affected, and the studio will be in chaos. Still design calmly? Still launch new products? Not a chance."

He paused and continued, "Once she's fallen apart, we'll figure out the next step. Her studio, her brand, her title as top designer—it'll all become a joke. Who'll remember her then? Who'll take her seriously?"

Elowen looked at him and suddenly realized this man was more terrifying than she'd imagined.

But also more useful.

"Alright," she said. "We'll do as you say."

Rupert disappeared into the night.

Elowen stood still, gazing at the distant city lights, her lips slowly curving into a smile.

'Just you wait, Harper. Every bit of suffering you've caused me -- I'll make you repay it a hundredfold, a thousandfold.'

Harper woke up early.

She was dressed in all black, her hair pulled back simply, her face bare of makeup.

Bianca accompanied her as they went to the cemetery on the city outskirts.

The atmosphere in the car was somber.

Bianca knew how important this day was to Harper.

Every year on Niamh's death anniversary, Harper would come.

Back when she was with the Getty family, Rupert had never accompanied her, claiming it was unlucky and inauspicious.

She'd come alone, talk to the tombstone alone, cry alone.

Sometimes she would cry so long that upon returning home, Rupert woud scold her for coming back with such a gloomy face.

This year was different.

Harper had her studio, her career, Bianca, and Alaric.

But Niamh was still gone.

Harper watched the scenery blur past the window, her heart at peace.

She'd brought a bouquet of white roses—Niamh's favorite—and pastries from the shop Niamh had loved when she was alive.

The same things every year, never changing.

The car stopped at the cemetery entrance. Harper carried the flowers inside.

Bianca followed behind her, not daring to speak.

The cemetery was very quiet, only the sound of wind through the pines and cypresses.

Sunlight filtered through the leaves, casting dappled shadows on the ground.

Walking up the stone steps, she passed rows of tombstones on either side.

Some had fresh flowers before them, others were covered in dust.

Harper's steps grew slower and slower, but her heart beat faster and faster.

They'd arrived.

She stopped and looked at the grave before her.

Then she froze.

The flowers slipped from her hands and fell to the ground.

White petals scattered everywhere, stained with dirt.

Bianca followed her gaze and gasped.

The tombstone had been tampered with.

It was tilted, the base exposed, the characters on it crooked and barely legible.

The ground in front of the tomb had been dug up, soil scattered everywhere, weeds ripped out by their roots and tossed aside.

The small pine tree that had been planted before the grave had been uprooted and thrown aside, its roots dried out.

And worst of all -- someone had splashed something dark and foul onto tombstone, leaving a pungent stench.

Harper's legs went weak. She could barely stand.

Bianca caught her. "Harper!"

Harper didn't answer.

She just stared fixedly at the desecrated grave, her lips trembling, her whole body trembling.

This was her mother's final resting place, and it had been destroyed.

Bianca's eyes reddened. Looking at the devastation, she trembled with rage.

"Who did this? Who did this?" She practically shouted, her voice echoing through the quiet cemetery.

Harper said nothing.

She crouched down and began gathering the scattered soil with her bare hands.

Her hands were shaking, but she kept arranging.

Bit by bit, she pressed the disturbed soil back into place.

She straightened the tilted tombstone, using her own sleeve to wipe away the filth.

The filth stained her snow-white sleeve, turning it black.

She didn't care.

Bianca crouched down to help.

Neither of them spoke.

But Bianca knew Harper's tears were falling, drop by drop, onto that cold tombstone.

No sound, just a continuous flow of tears running down her cheeks and dripping into the soil, instantly absorbed.

After a long silence, Harper finally spoke, her voice rough as sandpaper. "Bianca, call the police."

Bianca was startled. "Call the police?"

Harper stood up and looking at the grave, her gaze cold as ice.

That gaze was so cold it made Bianca shiver.

She'd never seen Harper with such eyes—no tears, no sadness, only bone-chilling coldness.

"This wasn't an accident. Someone did this deliberately. I'm going to find that person." Harper paused, enunciating each word. "I'm going to make them pay the price."