Chapter 263

Chapter 263
Anna’s POV
"You?" I gasped, completely unprepared for who stood before me.

Jack Simpson leaned against one of the greenhouse's glass columns, breathing heavily. His usual composed demeanor was shattered—face flushed crimson, forehead glistening with sweat, tie loosened and hanging askew. His eyes widened in shock when he saw me.

"What are you doing here?" he managed, his voice unnaturally hoarse.

My brow furrowed as I studied him, alarm bells ringing in my head. This wasn't just unexpected—it was deliberate.

"What's wrong with you? Are you drunk, or..." I left the question hanging, though I already knew the answer.

He shook his head weakly. "No."

The pieces clicked into place with sickening clarity. This wasn't a coincidence—it was a setup. Someone had orchestrated this little greenhouse rendezvous, locking Jack and me inside together. The goal was blindingly obvious: create a compromising situation, let Marcus find out, then watch the explosion. Not particularly sophisticated, but devastatingly effective if successful.

"Do you know who drugged you?" I asked calmly, still gripping the golf club.

Jack's breathing was labored. "Must be Andre and Cynthia."

I mentally rolled my eyes. Andre Murphy was many things, but not stupid enough to leave his fingerprints this clearly visible. Though even if Andre and Cynthia weren't directly responsible, this happened in their home, at their party. And Cynthia had personally escorted me here.

"Maybe," I replied with a cold smile. "I assume they'll be barging in to catch us in the act soon. Ready for that, Jack?"

His pupils dilated at my words, struggling against whatever they'd given him. His gaze drifted to my lips, setting off warning signals throughout my body. I needed to redirect this situation immediately.

A solution crystallized in my mind. I thrust a golf club into Jack's hands and grabbed another for myself.

"What are you—" he began, but I was already in motion.

With all my strength, I swung the club at an antique tea table centered among Cynthia's prized orchids. The delicate porcelain planter atop it shattered spectacularly, soil and ceramic shards exploding across the slate floor.

Jack stared dumbly at the destruction as I pivoted toward an ornate display shelf.

"CRASH!" Glass and porcelain fragments rained down as priceless vases met their end.

I glared at him, impatience flaring. "What are you waiting for? Do you actually want them to catch us together?"

Understanding finally dawned in his drugged state. He raised his club and brought it down on a nearby plant stand. The physical exertion seemed to help clear his head, each swing more purposeful than the last. Soon we were methodically working our way through the greenhouse, leaving destruction in our wake.

By the time the door burst open, we'd transformed Cynthia's paradise into a wasteland of broken pottery and mangled plants. The shocked faces of the Murphy clan stared at us, frozen in disbelief.

Cynthia's face drained of color as she surveyed the devastation. "This... this is..."

Rachel Wilson pushed through the crowd, panic evident in her voice. "Ms. Shaw! Are you alright?"

I shook my head, suddenly aware of how overheated I'd become in my winter coat. Sweat beaded along my hairline as I caught my breath.

"I'm fine. Jack isn't," I stated flatly, my eyes finding Bradley Murphy in the doorway. "Bradley, please take Jack to the hospital."

Bradley's expression shifted from confusion to concern as he approached Jack and saw his condition. He nodded grimly, supporting Jack's weight as they moved toward the exit.

I dropped my golf club with a metallic clang, my gaze sweeping coldly across the assembled faces. "Sorry to disappoint everyone. The show you were hoping for won't be happening tonight."

Phillip and Layla Murphy were visibly seething, having immediately grasped the situation. Phillip turned on Andre, his voice sharp as a blade.

"What the hell is the meaning of this?" he demanded.

Layla grabbed my arm protectively. "We're supposed to be family. This is disgusting. Anna, we're leaving."

Andre's relatives scrambled to distance themselves from the scandal. "Anna, are you hurt?" "Don't worry, we all know what was happening here. No one will blame you."

I laughed harshly. "I'm not worried at all. Just sorry about your greenhouse, Cynthia." My voice dripped with insincerity as I gestured at the destruction surrounding us.

Andre's expression darkened as he calculated the political fallout. A scandal in his home, involving his brother's girlfriend and his own nephew—this could devastate his carefully curated image.
"Phillip, there's clearly been a misunderstanding. I'll get to the bottom of this," he promised, desperation bleeding through his polished veneer.

"You'd better," Phillip snapped, already turning to leave. "Good luck explaining this to Marcus."

As Layla led me toward the door, I paused, my gaze methodically scanning each face in the room. The temperature seemed to drop several degrees as I spoke.

"Whoever orchestrated this—I won't forget. And I won't forgive." The promise hung in the air like frost, making several people shift uncomfortably.