Chapter 170
Elizabeth froze mid‑movement. She stared at Sawyer, at that utterly matter‑of‑fact smile on his face, her mind going completely blank.
"What did you just say?"
"Marriage," Sawyer repeated, his tone as casual as if he were talking about the weather. "The other side is a very old Italian family, powerful, with deep roots. Their eldest son is thirty‑two, unmarried, decent‑looking, with a spotless family background. For you, it's a perfect match."
Elizabeth set down her knife and fork, her voice turning cold. "Sawyer, have you lost your mind?"
Sawyer looked at her, his smile unchanged. "Elizabeth, listen to me—"
"Listen to you say what?" Elizabeth cut him off. "I have a husband. I have a husband, a son, a family. And you want me to go marry someone else?"
Sawyer's smile faded a little.
"Jacob? The one who left you to give birth alone? The one who made you shoulder all the pain and humiliation by yourself? He deserves to be called a husband?"
Elizabeth clenched her fists so tightly her nails dug deep into her palms. "That's my business. I don't need you to make decisions for me."
Sawyer sighed, stood up, walked to her side, and bent down so they were eye to eye. "Elizabeth, will you just let me finish, okay?"
Elizabeth said nothing.
"I know you don't like this idea. I don't like it either." His voice was very soft, carrying a kind of indefinable exhaustion. "But have you thought about what you actually have right now? You have no roots in Italy, no network, no influence. Those businesses in your hands are what I gave you. Those equity transfer papers—I can void them anytime I want. If I end up dead—"
He paused, his voice dropping even lower. "If I end up dead, what are you going to do? What is Jack going to do?"
Elizabeth's breathing stalled for a second. She looked at him, at the seriousness and worry in his eyes, and suddenly did not know what to say.
"The man I found for you," Sawyer went on, "he genuinely wants to marry you. He doesn't care about your past, doesn't care that you have a child, doesn't even care whether there's someone else in your heart. All he needs is a wife, a woman who can give him children and help him manage family affairs. And you need his protection."
He straightened, stepped back, and looked directly into her eyes. "Elizabeth, I'm not forcing you. I'm thinking ahead for you. Just think about it, will you?"
Elizabeth was silent for a long time. Then she lifted her head, looked at Sawyer, and said, enunciating every word, "No."
Sawyer's brows drew together.
"I don't need anyone to plan my life for me." Elizabeth's voice was very calm, so calm it sounded like she was stating a simple fact. "Sawyer, those businesses you gave me, I already signed the papers. Legally speaking, they're mine. You can't void them. As for whether I have roots or connections, those are things I can earn for myself. I don't need to get them by getting married."
Sawyer watched her, something complicated flickering in his eyes. "Elizabeth."
"And one more thing," Elizabeth interrupted him, "I have a husband. No matter what he's done in the past, he is my husband. I will not remarry. You can drop it."
She stood up and headed for the door. When she reached it, she stopped, not looking back as she said, "Thank you for your concern. But my life is my own to decide."
She pushed the door open and walked out.
Behind her, Sawyer stood where he was, staring at the closed door as the smile on his face slowly disappeared.
The warmth in his eyes cooled, little by little, into a deep, chilling frost that could make a person's blood run cold.
He sat back down slowly, his fingers tapping lightly on the table—once, and again, and again.
"Come out." He suddenly spoke, his voice not loud, yet it echoed clearly in the empty dining room.
A dark figure stepped out from the corner and moved soundlessly to stand behind him.
It was his personal bodyguard, a man who was always expressionless and taciturn, who had followed him for more than ten years and had witnessed every one of his moments of madness and sobriety.
"Go bring me the safe," Sawyer said quietly, his tone devoid of any discernible emotion.
The bodyguard nodded and turned to leave.
In less than five minutes, that pitch‑black safe was placed in front of Sawyer.
Sawyer did not hurry to open it. He just looked at it, his fingers drumming faster on the tabletop.
He knew the code was wrong; he had tried countless times—his father's birthday, that woman's death date, even that woman's birthday—and none of them had worked.
He could not open the safe, so he had handed it to Elizabeth, wanting to see if she could, wanting to see how she would do it.
He reached out and set the safe on the digital scale beside him. The numbers flickered, then settled on an exact weight.
He wrote that number down, then put the safe back on the table. He called another subordinate over and murmured a few instructions. The man took the order and left.
Sawyer leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes.
His fingers stopped tapping and rested quietly on the armrest, his breathing so even he might have been asleep.
But in his head, thoughts were racing. He remembered the look on Elizabeth's face that morning, that calm, composed expression, even carrying a hint of a smile.
Something about it felt off.
An hour later, the subordinate returned with a report in hand.
Sawyer took it, glanced at it, and his pupils tightened slightly. The safe weighed slightly more than it had the day before. Not by much, but enough to prove that something inside had been changed.
Sawyer set the report down on the table and stared at that line of numbers without moving.
For a very, very long time, he suddenly laughed.
The laugh was very soft, as light as a sigh, but there was no humor in it at all, only a biting, bone‑deep chill.
She had opened it. She really had opened it.
She had taken what was inside, then put something fake in its place and pretended nothing had happened.
He had been lying to her, and she had been lying to him.
He had been good to her, so she would open that safe. She had smiled at him so he would think she had discovered nothing.
They were siblings, all right. Equally good at putting on a show, equally good at calculating, equally unwilling to trust anyone.
All at once, he felt very tired. Not physically, but somewhere deep in his chest. He had done so much, killed so many people, fought for so many years, and in the end he could not even open a single safe, could not even keep a little sister by his side.
Then what was the point of everything he had done?
He leaned against the window frame, closed his eyes, and drew in a long, slow breath.
Wind drifted in from outside, carrying the fresh scent of the vineyard and the dampness of the soil.
He stood there for a long time, long enough for the sky to grow dark, long enough for the lights in the room to flick on automatically. Then he opened his eyes, picked up his phone, and dialed a number.
"Nathan." His voice was so steady it revealed nothing at all. "Come to the castle for dinner tomorrow."