Chapter 125 Live Broadcast
But the scene the intruder had imagined never materialized. Instead, what greeted them was almost absurd.
Bianca sat on the sofa, posture relaxed, eyes fixed on her phone screen with unmistakable delight.
The camera was trained on Alaric, slumped against the wall like a broken marionette. His hands and feet were bound with coarse rope, hair in disarray, tears and snot streaking down his face. He trembled under Bianca's cold reprimands, the picture of misery.
At the sound of the door, Bianca glanced up. The moment she saw Terrence, she paused, a flicker of understanding crossing her face.
She quickly returned her attention to the phone.
"He's not all there. Someone put him up to something stupid, and I caught him red-handed. As his elder, it's my duty to make sure he learns his lesson and doesn't try this again."
Alaric looked up at her with reddened eyes, his voice small and uncertain. "Bianca, who are you talking to?"
Bianca shot him a withering look. "Did I ask for your opinion?"
"Alright, that's it for today's stream. I get a kick out of dealing with idiots who think they can get away with garbage like this. Next time I catch one, I'll be back on air."
With that, Bianca ended the livestream and pocketed the phone.
She turned her gaze to Terrence, tilting her head slightly as if posing a silent question.
Terrence stood with his hands in his pockets, his expression calm as he surveyed the scene. "Someone sent me a location."
"Can you trace who it was?"
The moment Bianca saw Terrence, she'd already pieced together what the person behind this was aiming for.
The tactic was so old it practically had cobwebs.
Terrence shook his head slowly.
The second he'd received the messages, he'd had his tech team start tracing them.
They'd already confirmed that the tip about Bianca being somewhere suspicious in the south district came from Melissa.
But the other two messages? Dead ends.
Bianca's brow furrowed briefly before smoothing out again, leaving only cold calculation in her eyes.
"I questioned him. He doesn't know anything."
The "him" was obviously Alaric, who lay on the floor looking terrified.
"Want me to take care of it?" Terrence's tone was casual, but the lethal intent was clear.
"Send him back to the Sharp Mansion. Tell his family to keep him on a tighter leash. If they let him out to cause trouble again, I won't be so generous next time." Bianca's voice was low and hard as steel.
Terrence's jaw tightened. He was silent for a few seconds before nodding.
His instinct would have been to eliminate the problem entirely.
But if Bianca wanted it handled this way, he'd defer to her.
"Take Alaric back to the Sharp Mansion. Deliver her message word for word." Terrence's order was ice-cold.
His men moved efficiently, dragging Alaric out within moments.
In the car on the way back, the silence was so thick it was almost suffocating.
Terrence leaned against the seat, his breathing low and measured, fingers absently rubbing the web of his thumb.
Bianca stared out at the storm clouds, her mind still turning over what had just happened, oblivious to the tension in the air.
The engine's rumble seemed too loud, grating against already frayed nerves.
After a long stretch, Terrence spoke quietly. "Bianca, if I ever lost everything—my reputation destroyed, backed into a corner, everyone turning their backs on me—would you… would you leave?"
He didn't believe Melissa's messages. He didn't believe that vile accusation about Bianca being with someone else.
What he couldn't shake was that recording.
The coldness in that voice had burrowed into his bones. The disgust bled through every syllable like poison from a wound.
Every accusation in it had been surgical, precise—and knowing Bianca's true feelings only made those words cut deeper.
Still, he couldn't help but care.
Suspicion was woven into his DNA. He kept everyone at arm's length, incapable of giving complete trust.
Any hint of rejection was enough to shatter whatever fragile belief he'd managed to build.
He could let her past remain buried, but he needed to know where she stood now.
Bianca froze for a heartbeat, pulled from her scattered thoughts. When she met the vulnerability flickering in Terrence's eyes, something twisted painfully in her chest.
"Never." Her voice was steady, unwavering, her sincerity laid bare without a trace of hesitation. It struck directly at Terrence's most vulnerable place.
The corner of his mouth lifted slightly, and the weight pressing on his chest dissolved like smoke.
That night, on the apartment balcony, Terrence leaned against the railing with a cigarette, the ember glowing and fading in rhythm with his breath, casting shadows across his sharp features.
In his ear, Bianca's voice played back—raw, hysterical, cutting.
His expression remained neutral. The recording ended, the screen went dark, and only then did he seem to come back to himself.
He lit the screen again. Barry's voice came through from the other end. "Mr. Anderson, what do you need?"
"Destroy that recording. Completely. Leave no trace." Terrence's voice was calm and absolute.
There was a pause on the other end, then a slightly hesitant response. "Mr. Anderson, you don't want to investigate further?"
"No need. I trust her."
Terrence crushed out the cigarette, his thoughts drifting away with the smoke, carried off by the night breeze.
He didn't notice the shadow falling across the curtain behind him.
Bianca stood pressed against the wall, fingers clutching the fabric of her shirt, a sour ache spreading through her chest, sharp and stinging.
So that was it. That strange question he'd asked earlier—it had been hiding this kind of doubt, this kind of pain.
He'd chosen to bury his suspicions for her sake, to shoulder it all in silence.
Her nose prickled, and her eyes burned hot.
Even someone as commanding as Terrence could be this careful, this fragile, when it came to matters of the heart.
She exhaled slowly, then turned and slipped away from the balcony without a sound.
The next morning, Bianca pulled Jasmine straight into the old-fashioned pastry shop they'd visited before.
The wooden worktable gleamed with a warm patina, and the chef was using a fine sieve to strain the almond filling. When he saw them enter, he barely glanced up, his hands never pausing.
"The thickness of the dough determines the texture. The pressure from the rolling pin has to be even. Yesterday you two rushed it. Your pastries didn't have enough layers, the dough was too thick, and the crust lacked that delicate, flaky quality."
Bianca was more serious than she'd been the day before. She bowed slightly, her tone earnest. "Thank you for your guidance. I'll be patient this time and learn properly."
Jasmine looked at her in surprise, then smiled. "Bianca, you're really going all out to make Mr. Anderson happy. Honestly, I think he'd be thrilled no matter how it turns out."
But Bianca shook her head stubbornly.