Chapter 216 Identity Revealed

Chapter 216 Identity Revealed

Sam thought he had her cornered, thought panic would crack that icy composure and hand him victory on a silver platter.

He was wrong.

Sylvia moved like lightning—so fast the crowd barely registered it before her hand locked around his collar.

Sam's face drained of color. He tried to wrench free, but that slender, pale hand felt like forged steel. It clamped down like a vise, and he could not budge an inch.

Terror flooded through him, cold and cutting. This woman was stronger than any normal person had a right to be.

He thrashed wildly, his voice climbing to a shriek. "See? She's guilty! She's trying to kill me to shut me up!"

That single cry ignited the mob.

"Let him go!"

"The murderer's attacking someone in broad daylight!"

Frank and Lisa threw themselves between Sylvia and the surging crowd, but the tide of fury nearly swept them aside.

"Sylvia didn't kill anyone!" Lisa's eyes burned red with desperation. "We were with her the whole time—she had no chance to do it!"

Sam let out a cold, bitter laugh, his gaze venomous as it swept over the three of them. "Of course you're defending her. You're all in on it together. Frank, you broke the rules bringing an outsider to this island. Now someone's dead, and you're still covering for her? How does that square with Cora lying there cold on the ground?"

The accusation poured gasoline on the fire.

To the crowd, Frank and Lisa had been bewitched by this stranger—turned into accomplices.

Sylvia stared at the man twisting the truth in front of her, and the last thread of her patience snapped.

She released him.

Sam felt a brief flash of relief—until Sylvia's wrist twisted, locked onto his arm, and in one clean, brutal motion, she hurled him over her shoulder.

He hit the ground with a sickening thud.

The shouting stopped. The chaos froze.

Dead silence.

Everyone stood paralyzed, stunned by the raw, visceral force of what they had just witnessed.

Sylvia did not spare the gawking crowd a glance. She stepped forward, dropped to one knee, and pressed it hard into Sam's chest. Her face—sharp, beautiful, and utterly merciless—was a mask of lethal intent.

She leaned in close, her voice low, cold as steel. "Where is my son?"

Sam's head spun. His ribs screamed. When he met her eyes—eyes that could tear him apart—fear seized him whole. He stammered, "I... I don't know what you're talking about..."

A sharp crack cut him off.

Sylvia's hand slid to his throat, her fingertips ice-cold and steady—the very touch of death. Sam's body convulsed with terror.

"I don't have time for your games," Sylvia said, her tone flat and final, as if she were already looking at a corpse. "I'll ask you one more time. Where is my son? Don't answer, and I'll send you straight to hell so you can ask Cora yourself who really killed her."

Death loomed over him like a shadow. Sam felt the terrifying strength in those delicate fingers pressing into his windpipe, and his nerve finally broke.

His blood felt like ice. Looking into those emotionless eyes, he understood—truly understood—that this woman would kill him without hesitation.

But then he thought of the person who had hired him, the money, the promises. He clung to that lifeline and forced the words out through gritted teeth. "I don't know! What does your son have to do with me? Why would I know where he is?"

"Good," Sylvia said softly.

The last flicker of light in her eyes went out, replaced by something cold and dead.

Her fingers tightened. No hesitation. No mercy.

That was when the crowd snapped out of their shock. Sam's cry of "she's killing me" finally broke through, and they surged forward in a roar.

"Stop!"

"What do you think you're doing? You're going to kill him right in front of us?"

"Grab her!"

The air turned dangerous, electric with violence.

Frank and Lisa were shoved back by the mob, losing ground fast. The situation was seconds from spiraling completely out of control.

Sylvia did not hear them. Her world had narrowed to the man beneath her knee and the son she could not find.

Then a voice like thunder cut through the chaos.

"Everyone STOP! What the hell is going on here?"

The crowd parted like the Red Sea. John strode through, his face dark as a storm cloud.

He had gotten word and come running. Now, seeing Sam pinned under Sylvia and the mob ready to explode, his expression turned black as pitch.

The island members swarmed him immediately, voices overlapping in accusation.

"Mr. Miller! Thank God you're here! This woman killed Cora, and now she's trying to kill Sam to cover it up!"

"Sam saw her do it! He's a witness!"

John's gaze swept over the body on the ground. His jaw tightened, a flicker of grief crossing his face.

But he did not lash out. Instead, he turned to the woman everyone was pointing at, his voice edged with something complex, something even he could not name.

"What happened?"

Sylvia slowly released Sam and rose to her feet. Her face was pale with strain, but her expression remained ice-cold. She did not even look at John. Her eyes stayed locked on Sam like a predator tracking wounded prey.

When she did not answer, Sam scrambled backward into the crowd, clutching his throat, voice cracking with fake tears. "Mr. Miller, you have to do something! It was her! I saw her strangle Cora with my own hands!"

John's gaze moved between Sylvia and Sam, sharp and assessing. Finally, he took a deep breath and fixed his eyes on Sylvia.

Then he spoke, each word deliberate and weighted.

"She is one of the founding members of Sapphire Sky Guild. Imogen's daughter."

The words detonated like a bomb.

Everyone froze. Disbelief rippled through the crowd.

Imogen—the legendary woman whose name was carved into the history of Sapphire Sky Guild. Many of them had heard the stories.

And this outsider, this stranger, was her daughter?

John ignored the shock. He whipped around, his eyes boring into Sam like drills, his voice dropping to a deadly chill. "Sam. I'm going to ask you one more time. You said you saw Ms. Brooks kill Cora with your own eyes?"

That single phrase, "Ms. Brooks," spoken with unmistakable respect and authority, made Sam's heart drop into his stomach.

The color drained from his face. His lips trembled. No sound came out.

By now, the crowd had figured it out.

They had been played.