Chapter 526

Chapter 526

So when Alexander asked that question, Zoey felt no hope at all—just a numb, hollow calm.

But now, watching Mason stammer and squirm pathetically, that calm curdled into genuine disgust.

"I'd like to know too."

Zoey looked at Mason, her voice dripping with revulsion:

"Mason, we came from the same womb. We share the same blood."

"So why could you be so disgusting as to help Cleo send me to prison?"

Each word hit like a hammer blow to Mason's chest.

Mason's whole body jerked. It was as if someone had drained every ounce of strength from him, his shoulders collapsing inward.

He looked into Zoey's eyes. The ice and accusation he found there left him nowhere to hide.

"I... I..." His mouth opened and closed. His Adam's apple bobbed. After a long pause, he finally managed to squeeze out a feeble excuse:

"Back then, Cleo said that surgery was performed under your guidance, that's why she dared to take over..."

Before he could finish, the words died in his throat.

Zoey let out a soft, scornful laugh.

It was quiet, but packed with endless mockery and desolation.

"My guidance?"

She repeated the words as if tasting something utterly absurd.

Then she raised her eyes, her gaze like ice picks nailing Mason's face.

"That's what Cleo told you?"

"Did she also tell you that she'd just had a massive fight with her boyfriend that day? That she was in the worst mood imaginable, full of rage and desperate to show off? That she ignored every warning and forced her way into performing a coronary bypass surgery she had absolutely no business leading?"

"Did she tell you that this so-called 'guidance' from me was actually fabricated chat records and altered medical order system entries she created afterward to cover her own ass?"

"Did she tell you that the patient who died on her operating table was only thirty-five years old? That he was his family's sole provider? That his wife had just given birth and was still recovering?"

Zoey's voice wasn't loud. Her pace was almost steady. But each question landed like a slap across Mason's face, leaving him dizzy, his complexion white as paper.

"And you, my dear brother—"

Zoey paused, watching the last flicker of light in Mason's eyes die out completely, replaced by ashen emptiness.

"You didn't ask me a single question. You didn't look twice at evidence riddled with holes. You just believed her without hesitation, helped her commit perjury, and stood by while they sent me to prison."

"Mason, when you were out there living your fabulous life as Mr. King, did you ever—even for one second—think about what kind of hell your own sister was going through behind bars?"

Zoey didn't scream. She didn't cry. She simply stated the cruelest facts in the calmest tone.

The living room fell deathly silent.

Only Mason's ragged breathing and Scarlett's barely suppressed gasps remained.

Mason stared at Zoey. His mouth opened. His throat made a rasping sound, but he couldn't form a single syllable.

He wanted to say he was sorry.

But those words, faced with the truth Zoey had just laid bare, felt lighter than dust, cheaper than a joke.

He no longer had the right to speak them.

---

Unlike the cold, oppressive standoff in the living room, the atmosphere here was toxic.

In the room at the end of the hallway, the lighting was dim. The air carried a faint mixture of blood and disinfectant.

Beatrice shut the door and leaned against the cold surface, breathing hard to calm the anger and tension from her confrontation with Harold.

Idiot. Complete and utter idiot!

She cursed inwardly.

What the hell was Viper thinking, partnering with such a brainless, arrogant moron?

Assassinate Alexander—what kind of delusional plan was that? Did he have a death wish?

Cursing aside, she still had a job to do.

She steadied herself and refocused on the center of the room.

Harold was bound to a sturdy wooden chair, hands tied behind his back with professional-grade restraints—nearly impossible to escape.

His head hung low, hair matted with dried blood and sweat plastered to his forehead.

His clothes were torn and filthy, exposing skin crisscrossed with whip marks. Some had scabbed over; others still oozed faint traces of blood. The sight was horrifying.

His eyes were shut tight, his chest barely rising and falling. He looked unconscious.

Is he faking? Did he just lose the argument and decide to play dead?

Beatrice frowned and approached cautiously. She'd stormed out earlier in a rage, but halfway down the hall, she'd turned back. After all, she didn't want to go back to prison, which meant she had to complete Viper's assignment.

"Harold?" she called softly.

No response.

"Harold!" She raised her voice slightly, scanning the room warily.

Aside from the two of them, it was empty.

The walls were bare except for a small ventilation window high up, through which a few rays of sunlight filtered in, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air.

No cameras. No listening devices.

She'd checked earlier, but what if someone had installed something while she was gone?

Harold remained motionless, like a lifeless rag doll.

That uneasy feeling crept back into Beatrice's chest.

Did Zoey beat him that badly?

Did she actually kill him?

No. If he were dead, Zoey wouldn't have let her in here, much less left her alone with a corpse.

She walked to the nearby sink, filled half a cup with cold water, and returned to Harold.

"Wake up!"

She flicked her wrist and splashed the water across Harold's face.

The icy shock made his body twitch imperceptibly. Water droplets slid down his filthy cheeks and dripped onto his bloodstained shirt.

He only furrowed his brow and let out a muffled groan. His eyelids struggled briefly before drooping shut again. He didn't truly wake.

Beatrice's patience evaporated.

Time was running out. How long Scarlett and Mason could keep Zoey occupied was anyone's guess. She didn't have time for wake-up games.

She stared at a relatively fresh wound on Harold's torso, near his ribs. The flesh was torn open. Though it had stopped bleeding, it looked agonizing.

Beatrice's eyes went cold. She extended her index finger and jabbed it hard into the wound.

"AHHH—!!"

A piercing scream tore from Harold's throat. His entire body convulsed violently, the restraints digging deep into his flesh.

The sudden pain yanked him from unconsciousness. Veins bulged on his forehead as cold sweat poured down his face.

"You fucking bitch! Which asshole—!"

Harold cursed savagely, the pain jolting his foggy mind into clarity.

He snapped his head up, bloodshot eyes blazing with violent fury, instinctively searching for whoever had hurt him so he could tear them apart.

Then he froze.

Standing before him wasn't some brutal enforcer, but a woman.

A beautiful woman.

Fair skin, delicate features, eyes slightly widened with just the right amount of alarm and unease.

As if his scream and cursing had startled her, she'd instinctively taken half a step back.

Fragile. Beautiful. Pitiable.

The complete opposite of the torturer he'd expected.

"...Why are you still here?" Harold rasped, his voice distorted by pain.

He studied Beatrice warily, trying to read her face.

"What the hell did Zoey send you here for? Don't lie to me. I'm not in the mood for your bullshit."

He forced out a mocking, pained smile. "If you're planning some kind of honey trap, save it. I don't fall for that crap."

Beatrice mentally rolled her eyes. The frightened expression on her face disappeared, replaced by a cold mix of impatience and scrutiny.

She brushed her hands together as if dusting them off, acting like someone else had just jabbed his wound.

"I already told you this has nothing to do with Zoey." Her voice was low and rapid. "I'm here to rescue you. You'd better cooperate and keep quiet."

"Rescue me?" Harold looked like he'd heard the world's funniest joke. The movement pulled at his wound, making him grimace and cough through broken laughter. "Hah... just you? A woman? Zoey sent you to interrogate me, didn't she? Nice act."

Suspicion and ridicule practically dripped from his eyes.

In his mind, Beatrice was either Zoey's new interrogation tactic or some delusional, naive idiot.

Beatrice felt her anger flare at his undisguised contempt.

From the moment she'd entered this room, she'd been holding back a storm of rage.

Zoey's manipulation. Harold's stupidity. Viper's pressure. Fear of what lay ahead...

Now, with Harold looking at her like that, it all ignited.