Chapter 191 Chapter Ninety-Six: Face To Face.
Chapter 191 Chapter Ninety-Six: Face To Face.
Chapter Ninety-Six: Face To Face.
Moments after Ileana’s abduction
“Ileana? Ilie! Ilie—are you okay? What’s going on?”
Remy was already on his feet, panic seizing his chest as he stared at his phone. Just moments ago, Ileana had called him—but instead of her voice, there had only been muffled noise on the line. Shuffling. A sharp intake of breath. Something scraping in the background.
“Ileana?”
he called again, louder, his voice cracking.
“Talk to me.”
No answer.
Then a sudden, hollow clatter echoed through the speaker—metal against concrete. The phone stayed connected, but the sounds stopped completely.
Remy froze, breath held, heart hammering so hard it drowned out his thoughts.
A voice slipped through the silence. Low. Controlled. Calm.
“Easy.”
The single word sent ice through Remy’s veins.
He didn’t hesitate. His chair screeched loudly across the floor as he grabbed his jacket and bolted for the door. Alex was already moving, falling into step beside him without being asked.
“I’ve got her phone location,”
Alex said, fingers flying over his tablet as they rushed down the corridor.
“It’s pinging at your penthouse.”
Remy shot him a sharp look, jaw tightening.
“Or just her phone.”
The color drained from Alex’s face.
Both men pulled out their phones at the same time. Alex dialed LuAnn. Remy called Vy.
“Hey, Remy—”
“Aunt Vy,”
Remy cut in, barely able to keep his voice steady.
“Is Ileana there?”
There was a pause on the line. Movement. The faint sound of dishes clinking.
“I—I don’t think so,”
Vy said slowly.
“I didn’t hear her come in—”
“Please,”
Remy said.
“Check for me.”
The panic in his voice was unmistakable.
“Callie! Callie!”
Vy called out as she hurried from the kitchen.
A moment later, Carolyn’s voice answered, confused.
“What’s wrong, Mom?”
“Is your cousin here?”
Silence.
Carolyn glanced around the room, her heartbeat quickening.
“No… she hasn’t—”
“Aunt Vy,”
Remy said quietly, dread settling deep in his gut.
Vy’s voice trembled.
“Remy… what’s wrong?”
Remy closed his eyes, gripping his phone so tightly his knuckles burned.
“I’ll be there soon.”
He ended the call and broke into a run.
\--------
Ileana drifted back toward consciousness, her body heavy and uncooperative as she shifted against a soft surface. Every movement felt delayed, as though her limbs were wrapped in wet sand.
When her vision finally steadied, she pushed herself upright, rubbing at her face in a futile attempt to wake faster. The room was dark—its edges barely defined by moonlight slipping through sheer blinds that filtered the outside glow just enough to reveal unfamiliar shapes.
Her stomach clenched.
‘Where am I?’
Panic surged, sharp and immediate. Her heart began to race as she scanned the room, forcing her sluggish mind to catch up. Nothing looked familiar. Not the furniture. Not the layout. Not even the air.
She drew in a shaky breath and tried to think.
‘Focus.’
Memory came back in pieces. The news article. The Chairman. His wife. Dead. The shock of it all. Leaving school in a rush, unease crawling up her spine as she headed back to Remy’s place—
And then—
Pain. Sharp and sudden at her neck. Her body going heavy. Useless.
Remy’s voice, frantic on the phone. Someone else speaking—close. Calm.
Ileana swallowed and forced herself to slow her breathing, grounding herself in the present. Panic wouldn’t help her now.
She glanced down. Cold metal circled her waist.
Her breath hitched as she followed the chain with her eyes, watching it disappear beneath the bedframe where it had been bolted tight.
“Shit.”
The word slipped out quietly, swallowed by the darkness.
‘Okay… don’t panic, Ilie.’
Her eyes adjusted further, picking out more detail as the room slowly revealed itself. She turned her head toward the window again—and froze.
She recognized the skyline. The buildings beyond the glass were familiar. Too familiar.
“So you didn’t want to travel far,”
she murmured.
Her jaw tightened as realization settled into place.
“Nicothel,”
she whispered.
“That’s what you used.”
Her hands curled into fists just as the door creaked open.
Ileana’s head snapped up.
A figure stepped inside, the door closing softly behind him. Even in the dim light, recognition hit her like ice in her veins. Her face paled as her body went rigid.
He moved with easy confidence, entirely unbothered by the chain anchoring her to the bed.
His voice was light. Polite. Almost amused.
“You’re already awake,”
he said pleasantly.
“Did you sleep well, little owl?”
Ileana’s eyes darkened, every muscle in her body coiling tight.
“What am I doing here, Wyatt?”
Wyatt smiled, the gleam of his teeth catching the moonlight and sending a chill down Ileana’s spine. He dragged a chair across the floor and sat, deliberately propping his feet on the edge of the bed like he owned the room.
“Well,”
he drawled,
“up until a few moments ago, you were sleeping peacefully.”
Ileana’s jaw clenched. He found amusement in her dishevelment—in her vulnerability.
“You know,”
she said evenly,
“I’ve never met someone so eager to go to prison, Professor.”
Her eyes never blinked, as if she feared that the moment she closed them, he’d strike.
A sharp chuckle escaped him.
“Oh, don’t worry. That shot I gave you was just—”
“Nicothel,”
Ileana cut in.
“I know exactly what it was. Now tell me why I’m here.”
Wyatt paused. For a fleeting moment, something unreadable crossed his face—admiration tangled with irritation. She recognized compounds too quickly. Too easily. A skill he’d never quite mastered, even under Wilbur’s guidance. Yet she had.
A smirk returned to his lips.
“You really are like him,”
he murmured.
“Aren’t you?”
Ileana stiffened. She knew exactly who him was.
“Why are you doing this, Wyatt?”
“Doing what?”
“All of this!”
Her hands rose, her voice finally cracking through its restraint.
“The poisonings. The games. The deaths. Why? Are you truly that hellbent on throwing your life away?”
Wyatt stared at her; arrogance etched into every line of his face.
“I’m not going to prison, Ileana. Brilliant men like me never do.”
She scoffed.
“Brilliant? Hah. Then I suppose you really are following in your father’s footsteps, Mr. Veis.”
His eyes widened—wild, almost frantic.
“So you ‘do’ know who I am.”
His lips curled.
“Good. Then you know how brilliant my father was.”
Ileana laughed.
The sound snapped something inside him.
“What the fuck are you laughing at?”
he snarled.
“I just wouldn’t call a murdering monster brilliant.”
Wyatt’s lip trembled. Fury surged, hot and suffocating. That look in her eyes—judgment—was the same one Wilbur had worn.
“Well,”
he spat,
“I see you suffer from the same idiocy as your precious grandfather.”
Ileana’s voice dropped, dark and cold.
“And what about you, Veis? Will you be just like Daddy?”
She turned her head toward the window.
“We’re high enough. Why not follow his example and end this now—”
Wyatt was on her in an instant.
His hand closed around her throat, cutting off the rest of her words. Rage poured off him in waves, his breath ragged.
“You stupid bitch!”
he roared.
“You don’t know anything! They betrayed him! Murdered him! Your fucking grandfather destroyed him because he was jealous! Jealous of his greatness!”
His grip tightened. Her vision blurred, her face flushing dark—but her eyes never wavered.
That lack of fear only infuriated him further.
With a growl, he shoved her away.
Ileana collapsed forward, coughing violently, dragging air back into her lungs. Wyatt turned his back to her, fists clenched as he fought to steady his breathing.
‘Calm down, Wyatt. You’re losing control.’
Behind him, he heard it.
Low. Breathless. Laughter.
He spun around.
“What the hell are you laughing at?!”
Ileana looked up at him, tears streaming from strain, her face flushed—but there was a sardonic grin on her lips.
“Is that what this what it’s about?”
she rasped.
“You’re still throwing tantrums because my grandfather did what was right?”
Wyatt’s fists clenched.
“He wasn’t right!”
he shouted.
“He destroyed my father because he was jealous! Jealous of his brilliance—of his power—”
“Your father was a murdering sociopath,”
Ileana said quietly.
“A trait I see you’ve inherited.”
Wyatt froze.
Murderer. Sociopath. Monster.
The words haunted him. They always had. He’d seen them reflected in every look of disgust, every whisper tied to Marlow Veis’s name. He’d seen them in Wilbur’s eyes the moment he realized the truth.
But they were all wrong.
His father wasn’t a monster.
He wasn’t a monster.
Everything they did was for science. For progress. For power.
A dark chuckle slipped from his throat.
“What do you know?”
he hissed.
“All you know is what that old fool taught you—what he wanted you to believe.”
He stepped closer, his breathing erratic.
“What made him so special, huh? He creates vaccines and he’s a genius, but my father pushes boundaries and he’s a monster—”
“He didn’t create medicine to destroy life,”
Ileana interrupted.
“He created it to heal. To save.”
Her voice trembled.
“He saved your life.”
Wyatt’s breath hitched.
Memory surged—fever, darkness, a man kneeling beside his bed, refusing to give up.
“All those years with him,”
she whispered.
“How could you not understand that?”
For a split second, guilt flickered across Wyatt’s face—gone before the moonlight could betray him.
“That was his flaw,”
he said coldly.
“He couldn’t see the bigger picture.”
“And what picture is that?”
Wyatt looked down at her.
“The power wield life! The power to heal.”
A smile crept across his lips.
“The power to kill. The power to control. Wilbur was too weak to embrace it.”
Ileana scoffed weakly.
“Or maybe he just wasn’t evil—”
“He was WEAK!”
Wyatt exploded.
“Naive! Roaming the kingdoms, giving his brilliance away for free like it meant nothing! It was pathetic!”
“And yet, you wouldn’t be here had he done otherwise.”
Wyatt stilled.
Then he smiled again—slow, deliberate.
“That’s because my greatness was his karma.”
Ileana’s blood ran cold.
“What… what do you mean?”
Wyatt leaned down, his breath brushing her cheek, his voice silky with malice.
“Want to hear a secret, little owl?”
Her stomach dropped.
“Your grandfather didn’t die from a village disease.”
The color drained from her face.
“What are you talking about?”
she whispered.
His eyes gleamed.
“With the help of my father’s teachings, I killed him,”
he said softly.
“With the very toxin he tried to erase from history.”
His smile widened.
“Doxoten.”
The world tilted.
He hadn’t died. He’d been murdered.
Wyatt’s laughter filled the room—sharp, manic.
“So you see,”
he said, savoring every word,
“even the great Wilbur Green could stop my father’s legacy!”
He straightened.
“Even in death, my mentor was better than yours.”