Chapter 98
Emily Windsor's POV
Lawrence could only see my chat with Jade. The messages had been deleted, but he knew I'd just used the phone.
"Dignity?" Lawrence sneered, eyes full of mockery. "Miss Windsor, you think you're in any position to lecture me about dignity? You think I don't know you're still pining for that dead bastard Luke?"
He pressed closer, trying to catch a crack in my expression.
"You're this worked up—are you really contacting him?"
I snapped completely. Every shred of pretense tore away in that instant. I slammed the phone down on the vanity with a sharp crack, jabbing my finger toward his nose, voice drenched in towering hatred and despair. "Luke is dead! Lawrence, you know it better than I do—he's nothing but ash now!"
Tears spilled down my face as my voice turned hysterical. "If he were really alive, if he'd somehow survived that explosion, I'd find him, bring him back, and kill you myself! I'd make you pay in blood!"
The words were half-truth, half-performance—venting real anguish while cleverly steering him toward the lie that Luke was gone.
Lawrence's gaze lingered on my face for several seconds, as if analyzing every syllable. He saw the tear tracks, the desperation in my eyes. Finally, his suspicion melted away, replaced by something sickeningly satisfied.
He ignored my fury, didn't even glance again at the phone I'd thrown down.
Lawrence picked up the landline on the desk and dialed.
"Send up the styling team." His tone was clipped, commanding. He hung up, then turned to me with a cruel smirk. "Miss Windsor, you want revenge for Luke? I'll give you the chance."
He wanted me to appear somewhere—as Lawrence Lowe's woman.
It was the ultimate humiliation. A slap in Luke's face. A provocation to the entire Victor family.
I stared at my tear-streaked reflection, hatred flickering in my eyes like twin ghost-flames.
Luke, do you see? For your revenge, I'll descend into this endless hell.
Soon, the styling team filed in.
Armed with professional tools and exquisite cosmetics, they swarmed around me.
Brushes glided across my skin, layering foundation over my pallor. Heavy eyeliner carved sharp angles. Bold lipstick painted my mouth a vivid crimson.
I watched the woman in the mirror transform into someone unrecognizable—sultry, dangerous. Inside, I was ice.
Lawrence leaned against the doorframe, cigar smoldering between his fingers. Through the curling smoke, his predatory gaze locked onto me with sick appreciation.
"Lawrence, what the hell are you playing at?" I shot him a cold look through the mirror.
"Taking you on a date." He chuckled, flicking ash, then strolled elegantly behind me.
His cold hands landed on my shoulders. He leaned down, breath tickling my ear, tone dripping with mockery. "Miss Windsor, you should thank me. Not everyone gets the opportunity to stand at the pinnacle of New York power, looking down on all these ants."
"Psychopath." I tried to stand, but he pressed down hard.
His grip was brutal, fingers practically digging into bone.
Lawrence's expression darkened instantly, eyes glinting with cruelty. "Emily, don't test my patience. You can walk out that door right now. But I can't guarantee that by tomorrow morning, every single servant in this estate will still be in one piece."
My body went rigid. Nails dug into my palms.
This vile threat—he used it every time. And every time, I had no choice but to submit.
"Let's go." I drew a deep breath, forcing down the nausea churning in my gut, plastering on a hollow, icy smile.
Lawrence drove his ostentatious silver Koenigsegg like a lunatic, engine roaring like a beast as we tore out of the estate.
The speedometer needle danced wildly. Scenery blurred past.
I clenched the seatbelt, stomach lurching, teeth gritted in silence.
Soon, we pulled up outside a private racetrack.
Reporters already swarmed the entrance. Camera flashes exploded like a barrage of arrows.
Lawrence stepped out gracefully, circled to my side, and opened the door with mock chivalry.
He hooked an arm around my waist, pulling me flush against him, then flashed the ravenous press a triumphant smile.
"Everyone, allow me to introduce you." Lawrence's voice wasn't loud, but it carried insufferable arrogance. "This is my fiancée, Emily."
The crowd erupted.
"Miss Windsor, is it true you've betrayed Victor Group?"
"Rumor has it you're connected to Luke's case, but now you're with Mr. Lowe—is it because Luke's completely fallen from power?"
"Miss Windsor, how do you respond to Lily's accusations?"
Microphones jabbed toward my face. I stared at those greedy, twisted expressions, heart barren.
Lawrence was staging a spectacle. He intended to personally destroy my reputation as a lawyer, nail me to the pillory of betrayal, ensure I had nowhere left to go but into his arms.
That night, my name shot to the top of trending lists at record speed.
#Former Legal Star Reduced to Mobster's Plaything
#Emily Betrays Allies, Victor Hero Defects to Enemy Camp
#Elite Family Drama: Luke's Body Still Warm, Ex and New Flame Compete
I became, overnight, New York's most notorious woman.
By the time we returned to the estate, I collapsed onto the sofa, utterly drained.
Lawrence was in high spirits, reaching for a wine bottle when his phone shrilled.
The screen flashed a name: Lily.
Lawrence raised an eyebrow, gesturing for me to answer. He hit speakerphone.
"Emily! You shameless whore!" The moment the call connected, Lily's hysterical shriek tore through. Even over the line, her fury was palpable. "How dare you betray Luke! How dare you crawl into Lawrence's bed! Have you forgotten how my brother died?!"
"Lily, who the hell are you to lecture me?" I laughed bitterly, voice dripping with calculated venom. "Victor Group is finished. Luke's ashes. Am I supposed to go down with you lost dogs? Mr. Lowe can give me things your family never could in a lifetime!"
"You'll rot in hell! Emily, I curse you! A sellout like you—Lawrence will use you up and toss you in the gutter!" Lily's voice cracked, nearly unhinged. "Just wait. I'll never forgive you! That dead bastard's assets? You won't see a dime!"
"Then go rot with your moldy inheritance!" I roared back. "Stop calling me. You disgust me!"
I hurled the phone to the floor.
It shattered with a sharp crack, screen splintering into a web.
I doubled over, shoulders trembling as I gasped for air.
Lawrence watched, final traces of doubt evaporating. He walked over, wrapping his arms around my shoulders from behind, voice sickeningly tender. "Emily, don't be upset. If she bothers you too much, I can handle it. One word from you, and Lily disappears from this world forever."
I shoved him away violently, spinning around, eyes blazing with undisguised hatred and madness.
"Don't touch her." I locked eyes with Lawrence, enunciating each word like a threat. "Lily is mine. The humiliation she gave me that day—I'll settle it myself, piece by piece. Lawrence, stay out of my revenge, or I'll never forgive you."
Lawrence studied my twisted, love-turned-hate expression. Rather than anger, he laughed—delighted.
"Fine. As you wish. Your revenge, your rules."
He turned away, humming a tune as he left.
The moment the door clicked shut, I crumpled into the sofa, palms slick with cold sweat.
Lily's rant had contained specific inflections—hidden codes only we understood.
The most important phrase: "rot in hell." Our signal.
It meant: He's awake.
'Luke. You're finally awake.'
I closed my eyes, letting tears slide down my cheeks, pooling among the shattered phone pieces.
In this game where I'd made myself bait, I'd finally heard the first whistle before dawn.