Chapter 82 How Much Is Your Freedom Worth?
Everyone in the office was staring at me, waiting for my reaction.
They wanted to see whether I, Selena Hart, would accept this sudden "favor" or publicly reject the Sterling family's goodwill.
I took a deep breath, looked away from his face, and turned to the white-haired butler.
"Please convey my thanks to Mrs. Sterling. I'm honored to receive her gift. And please tell her I'm looking forward to it as well."
A hint of relief showed on the butler's face as he bowed slightly.
"Very well. I won't disturb your work any further, Miss Hart, Mr. Sterling."
The office door closed.
Now, only Royce and I remained.
"This was your plan." I didn't ask—I stated it as fact.
"This is my sincerity in wanting to marry you."
"Sincerity?" I almost laughed.
He reached out and picked up the empty plate from the cake I'd eaten, dipped his finger in a bit of cream remaining on the edge, and then, under my gaze, put it in his mouth.
"Tastes good," he commented.
My heart skipped a beat.
That gesture carried an extreme, suffocating intimacy and possessiveness.
"Get out." I forced the words through clenched teeth.
"Our twenty-four hours aren't over yet."
"I said, get lost." My voice turned cold.
He smiled.
"Alright," he shrugged, "since my fiancée has spoken."
He turned and walked to the door.
Before pulling it open, he looked back and said one last thing to me.
"Remember, Selena. You're mine."
Then he pulled open the door and walked out, as if he'd just come to my office for an ordinary afternoon tea break.
Finally, I was alone in the office.
I walked to the sofa and looked at the soft cashmere shawl.
Light gray, with delicate patterns, feeling as soft as a cloud to the touch.
My hand stopped before touching it.
This wasn't an ordinary shawl.
I returned to my desk and looked at the paper bag with the La Patisserie logo.
I picked up the intercom.
"Emily, come in for a moment."
A few seconds later, Emily pushed the door open. She still looked nervous.
"Selena..."
"Take these," I pointed at the paper bag, "out and share them with everyone outside."
Emily's eyes widened instantly. She looked at me in disbelief, then at the bag.
"Selena... this... these are cakes from La Patisserie... I heard..." she stammered, "I heard even their cheapest piece costs four figures..."
"So what?" I raised an eyebrow. "Are you planning to worship it or auction it off?"
"No... no..." she turned pale at my question, "I just think... it's too expensive..."
"Hart Group employees deserve the best." I pushed the bag toward her. "Now, take it out and eat it. If I still see it here in an hour, your entire department's year-end bonus is gone."
Emily immediately grabbed the bag and ran out.
I picked up the acquisition proposal for Kateson Industries, forcing myself to focus on the numbers and terms.
Royce was right—I could be bolder with financial leverage.
I picked up my pen, about to revise the proposal, when there was another knock on the office door.
I looked up irritably.
"Come in."
The door opened.
This time, the person who walked in made the corners of my mouth curl up uncontrollably.
It was my dear uncle, Robert.
He no longer had that aggressive look from lunch at the restaurant.
His suit was wrinkled, his hair messy, his face showing the defeat and pallor of someone completely broken.
Blake behind him hung his head, looking thoroughly defeated and not daring to meet my eyes.
Apparently, the coffee at the police station didn't taste very good.
He walked to my desk and stood there.
The office was dead silent.
I didn't speak, just leaned back in my chair, twirling my pen, watching him leisurely.
I was waiting.
Waiting for him to speak.
A full minute passed before the muscles in his old face twitched, finally producing a dry, hoarse sound.
"Selena..."
He called my name with a disgusting, false intimacy, trying to close the distance between us.
"We... we're family."
"Family?" I stopped twirling my pen, looked at him, and smiled. "Uncle Robert, when your brother-in-law used rotten meat and moldy vegetables to make lunch for over a thousand employees at my company, did you think about us being 'family'?"
His face turned even paler.
"That... that was a misunderstanding! It was him... he acted on his own!" he explained urgently. "I had no idea! As soon as I found out, I immediately..."
"You didn't know?" I interrupted him. "That catering supply contract with three hundred percent profit—you signed it yourself. That 'consulting fee' transferred to your wife's brother's company account also came from your own offshore company. Uncle Robert, guess which one the tax bureau and the commercial crimes investigation unit would be more interested in?"
His legs visibly shook.
He stared at me, lips trembling, unable to say a word.
He knew I had evidence.
He knew that with just a flick of my finger, I could send him to prison for the rest of his life.
"What do you want?" He finally gave up struggling, his voice full of despair.
What did I want?
I stood up, walked around the desk, and approached him step by step.
I was taller than him because I was wearing heels.
I looked down at him like looking at a bug under my foot.
"Uncle Robert," I reached out and straightened his crooked tie.
"How much do you think your freedom is worth?"