Chapter 189
Chapter 189
Women's Prison
Scarlett sat motionless on the edge of her cot, staring blankly at the wall.
She'd been like this ever since sentencing. No crying. No tantrums. No words. Just a hollow shell, like a puppet with its strings cut.
"Hey, did you see the news?" Two guards passed by Scarlett's cell, voices low.
"What news?"
"Theodore from the Prescott Group—his wife just had another baby. A boy this time. It's all over the papers. The whole family of four looks so happy."
"Talk about hitting the jackpot. That's what I call winning at life."
"Right? Hey, you think the one locked up in there ever regrets it? If she hadn't pulled all that crazy stuff, she could've been the one living that dream."
"Who knows? Fate's a funny thing…"
Their voices faded down the corridor.
Scarlett's vacant stare suddenly sharpened.
A son…
Yasmin had a son…
A family of four… happy…
Each word seared into her like a red-hot brand.
She'd lost.
Lost everything. Completely destroyed.
Scarlett had gambled her entire life, every scheme, every manipulation—and in the end, she was nothing more than a footnote in someone else's happy ending. Crushed. Forgotten.
A scream tore from her throat, inhuman and raw.
She went wild, clawing at her hair, slamming her head against the concrete wall. The dull thuds echoed through the cell.
"It's fake! All fake!!"
"He's mine! Theodore is mine! I'm supposed to be Mrs. Prescott!!"
Scarlett shrieked incoherently, laughing, then sobbing, tears and snot streaming down her face. She looked possessed.
Guards burst in. It took several of them to wrestle her down onto the cot and force a sedative into her arm.
The drugs took hold. Scarlett went still, but her eyes remained locked on the ceiling, lips moving in endless, mumbled nonsense.
The warden reviewed her psychiatric report, brow furrowed.
"Persistent violent tendencies with severe delusional disorder. She's no longer suitable for the general population."
He picked up his pen and signed at the bottom.
In the disposition section, a single cold line appeared:
Transfer to high-security psychiatric ward. Life sentence. No possibility of medical parole.
---
Southwest Border
Theodore stood before a wall of monitors, each screen split into multiple feeds—infrared aerial views from drones, shaky first-person footage from body cams deep in the jungle.
The images jolted and swayed. Tree shadows flickered. Only labored breathing and the rustle of gear broke the silence.
He'd been here for thirty-six hours straight. Still in the same black shirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows, stubble darkening his jaw.
Ryan held out a cup of hot coffee. Theodore didn't take it. His eyes stayed locked on one particular screen.
A red dot crept across the map at an agonizingly slow pace, inching toward the river marking the border.
"He's running on empty," Ryan murmured. "Our teams are in a fan formation. Group A is less than five hundred meters out. He's not getting away."
Theodore said nothing. He picked up the radio.
"All units, close the net."
His voice was calm, clinical. It traveled through the airwaves into every earpiece deep in that jungle like a death sentence.
"Target is extremely dangerous. Use whatever force necessary. I want him alive."
---
In the jungle, Henry leaned against a massive banyan tree, gasping for air.
He was covered in mud and cuts. His injured arm had swollen like rising dough, throbbing with every heartbeat.
He knew he was surrounded.
Henry pulled the last high-energy gel pack from his tactical vest, twisted it open, and downed it in one gulp. The sickeningly sweet liquid slid down his throat, offering a fleeting illusion of strength.
He looked up. Through the dense canopy, he could just make out the distant mountain ridge. Cross that, and he'd be in another country. Another chance to disappear.
Hope was so close.
Gritting his teeth, he forced himself forward with the last reserves of his strength.
He'd barely made it twenty meters when his foot caught on a vine. He pitched forward into the mud.
This wasn't an accident.
By the time he realized it, it was too late.
Black figures erupted from the trees on all sides.
Henry had spent his life dancing with death. He rolled, yanked the combat knife from his leg sheath, and slashed at the nearest man's throat.
The operative tilted his head. The blade grazed his cheek, drawing blood.
He didn't even blink. His elbow slammed into Henry's wrist at a vicious angle.
A crack. The knife flew from Henry's grip.
Henry grunted, vision swimming with pain.
But he didn't quit. He tried to kick out with his legs.
A boot came down hard on his spine, pinning him face-first into the slick mud.
Cold steel pressed against the back of his skull.
"Game over," a low voice said in his ear.
Henry stopped fighting. His cheek pressed into the freezing ground, chest heaving.
He'd lost.
---
In the command center, when the red dot merged with the blue dots on the screen, everyone exhaled.
Theodore's rigid posture finally relaxed.
He picked up the now-cold coffee, took a sip, and called Chief Brown.
"Chief Brown, we got him. Alive. The rest is yours."
"Mr. Prescott, we couldn't have done this without your intel and support." Relief flooded the voice on the other end. "This snake's been hiding in the grass for years. Finally got him by the head."
"Just doing my part."
He hung up and walked outside the tent, lighting a cigarette.
Through the curling smoke, he watched the eastern sky pale with dawn. But his mind was a thousand miles away.
Home.
The storm Scarlett had unleashed was finally over.
---
One Year Later
At the top floor of Prescott Group headquarters, a press conference on the company's ten-year strategy was underway.
Theodore stood on stage, a massive screen behind him displaying the corporation's new logo and expanded business map.
"…Starting today, the Prescott Group will no longer be confined to traditional finance and real estate. We are moving aggressively into artificial intelligence, biotechnology, and renewable energy. This marks our transformation from a domestic enterprise into a global, diversified tech conglomerate…"
Camera flashes lit up the room like fireworks.
Ryan sat in the front row, watching the man on stage—confident, commanding, in total control. His chest tightened with emotion.
This past year, the Prescott Group had undergone a complete metamorphosis.
Theodore's methods were sharper than ever, his vision more far-reaching.
Single-handedly, he'd steered this corporate giant into uncharted waters.
And it all seemed to have started after that seemingly insignificant family crisis a year ago.
---
When the conference ended, Theodore declined all interview requests and dinner invitations. He went straight home.
His car pulled into the Prescott Estate. Before it even stopped, a small figure bolted out of the house.
"Daddy!"
Noah launched himself into Theodore's arms like a tiny cannonball.
Theodore scooped him up and kissed his cheek. "Were you good at preschool today?"
"Yes!" Noah wrapped his arms around his neck and whispered conspiratorially, "But Sebastian wasn't good. He used Mommy's design sketches as coloring paper and drew a big turtle on them!"
Theodore laughed.
Inside, Yasmin was holding Sebastian—just over a year old now—trying to wipe his hands and face with a wet cloth. He was covered in marker streaks. When he saw Daddy, he grinned his gummy smile and reached out.
"Look what he did." Yasmin shot Sebastian a mock glare, then looked up at Theodore. "How'd the press conference go?"
"Smooth." Theodore took his son, who immediately planted a colorful, slobbery kiss on his cheek.
Yasmin's studio had evolved into the Yasmin School of Design.
She no longer focused solely on haute couture. Instead, she poured her energy into nurturing the next generation of designers.
The academy's first class of students had already won several international young designer awards. The industry couldn't stop talking about it.
Yasmin had found a stage where she could shine—not as Mrs. Prescott, but as herself.