Chapter 106
The Luke I know would never harm someone defenseless, no matter how desperate the situation.
I lifted my head and stared hard at Harold's face, twisted with hatred. "This isn't real."
"The evidence is right in front of you, and you still dare to argue?" Harold trembled with fury, his cane tapping sharply against the floor. "I paid a fortune to get this from a server who escaped! It's ironclad proof!"
I lunged forward, ignoring the bodyguards' attempts to restrain me, and dropped to my knees to grab the tablet.
I replayed that thirty-second clip over and over, forcing myself to ignore the heart-wrenching pain that face brought me, focusing every ounce of attention on each frame, each detail.
I was a lawyer. I'd seen countless fabricated pieces of evidence. My instincts and logic were both screaming that something here was wrong.
First pass. Second. Third…
Finally, at seventeen seconds in—the moment Luke raised his gun for the finishing shot—I found it.
The face of his Patek Philippe watch, catching the corridor lights, reflected a halo of light at an angle that didn't match the reflection off the metal trim on the wall behind him. The discrepancy lasted barely a fraction of a second.
It was an infinitesimally subtle inconsistency, only detectable when playing frame by frame.
Like an oil painting, no matter how realistic, can never truly replicate the fluid movement of real light and shadow.
My voice trembled with excitement, but carried undeniable certainty. "This video has been doctored!"
"Nonsense!" Harold clearly didn't believe me.
"Look here," I pointed at a tiny glint on the screen, my words tumbling out in a rapid stream. "This is a light reflection. If someone were actually present in this scene, all reflective surfaces on their body should follow the same light source logic. But this watch reflection and the wall reflection are coming from two different angles! And his shadow—when he turns, the edges blur and ghost slightly. That's not natural!"
I marshaled every scrap of my professional knowledge and observational skill, breaking down each inconsistency in the footage point by point.
My voice grew steadily calmer, my logic increasingly airtight.
The rage on Harold's face gradually receded, replaced by deep scrutiny and doubt.
He stared at me, then at the screen, his rheumy eyes flickering with violent internal struggle.
"Why the hell should I believe you?" he asked, voice heavy.
"You don't need to believe me. You only need to believe science." I met his gaze head-on, enunciating each word. "If you could pay a fortune for this video, you can certainly find a top video forensics expert to analyze it. Have them determine the truth—it'll be obvious. And if their analysis proves I'm lying, I'll submit to whatever you decide. No complaints."
My candor and conviction became the final weight that tipped the scales of doubt in his mind.
Harold was silent for a long time. Finally, he waved his hand. A bodyguard immediately retrieved the tablet and retreated respectfully.
The wait that followed was longer than any before it.
I was returned to that dark cell, but I no longer felt despair.
I knew I'd made the right bet.
About a day and a night later, that heavy iron door opened again.
It wasn't a bodyguard who entered, but Harold himself.
He dismissed his men and stood alone in the doorway. Gone was the earlier violence from his aged face—only a deathly stillness remained, the calm before a storm.
He looked at me for a long while before finally squeezing out a sentence through gritted teeth: "You were right. The video was fake."
My heart finally settled back into place.
"The tech team worked through the night on restoration," Harold said, his voice carrying a suppressed, almost volcanic hatred. "That face… it was Lawrence's."
Though I'd already guessed this outcome, hearing it confirmed still sent a shudder through my entire body.
"Lawrence!" Harold suddenly slammed his dragon-head cane into the floor. The cane, carved from premium nanmu wood, actually cracked under the force.
Murderous intent blazed in those cloudy old eyes. "That little bastard! How dare he play me for a fool!"
He turned to look at me, his expression impossibly complex. There was guilt, there was appreciation, but most of all, there was the vicious solidarity of finding a common enemy.
"Miss Windsor, I apologize for my earlier… transgressions." He inclined his head toward me slightly.
The bodyguards released my restraints and escorted me upstairs to a clean, comfortable guest room.
Harold personally apologized and told me he'd already dispatched people to handle family matters. I should rest easy here—he would give me, and his dead son, the justice we deserved.
It seemed things had truly taken a turn for the better.
The first thing I did was pull out the encrypted phone hidden against my body and send Lily a message: [Harold situation—resolved.]
Lily's reply came quickly, just one word: [Good.]
Staring at that single word, I finally let my taut nerves fully relax.
Exhaustion crashed over me like a tidal wave. I didn't even have the energy to change out of my filthy, bloodstained clothes before collapsing onto the soft bed and sinking into unconsciousness.
I slept like the dead.
When I woke again, deep night had fallen outside the windows.
Only a dim wall sconce illuminated the room, bathing everything in an ambiguous, quiet atmosphere.
I sat up, rubbing my throbbing temples, and prepared to take a shower to finally wash away the grime and gore of these past days.
But the moment I turned around, I froze.
On the armchair across the room sat a figure who'd appeared without a sound.
He wore an impeccably tailored black suit, legs crossed, gracefully swirling a wine glass in his hand.
Moonlight from the window traced his devastatingly handsome yet sinister profile. Those smiling eyes fixed on me unblinkingly, as if admiring prey caught in a web—prey that didn't yet realize it was trapped.
My heart seized violently. Ice-cold dread shot from the soles of my feet straight to the crown of my head.
This was Harold's territory, heavily guarded. How had he gotten in? Where was Harold?
"Miss Windsor… how have these past few days been treating you?" He swirled his glass gently. Amber liquid rippled with dangerous promise. That smile curling his lips was cruel and playful all at once.
Operating purely on instinct, I scrambled off the bed and bolted for the door.
But before my hand could reach the handle, the heavy wooden door was pushed open from outside.
Standing in the doorway was no longer Harold's security detail, but a row of expressionless men in black suits.
They formed an impenetrable wall, cutting off my only escape route.
I whirled around in terror to look at the man still lounging comfortably in the armchair, every drop of blood in my body seeming to freeze solid in that moment.