Chapter 194
Chapter 194
Seven Days Ago, 9 PM, Outside Maplewood Estates
This street was one of Empire City's most exclusive residential areas. The sprawling single-family homes sat far apart, each one hidden behind towering hedges and ornate wrought-iron gates—total privacy guaranteed.
Benjamin crouched in the landscaped median across the street, his back pressed against a camphor tree as thick as a mixing bowl. His knees were pulled up to his chest, arms draped over them.
He'd been squatting there for nearly an hour. Mosquitoes had left welts all over his legs—itchy, swollen bumps—but he didn't scratch them. He hadn't even shifted position. His eyes stayed locked on that charcoal-gray villa gate across the way.
Angela hadn't replied to him in three full days now. Three days. Seventy-two hours. He'd sent forty-seven messages, made twenty-three calls. All he got back was one ice-cold text: [Busy.]
He couldn't wrap his head around it. Someone who'd been so good to him—how could she just flip like that? So here he was, determined to see for himself what the hell she was so busy with.
Just when his legs were about to go completely numb, a sleek black Mercedes glided silently into Maplewood's driveway.
The car door opened. A man stepped out from the back seat. The instant Benjamin's gaze landed on him, it felt like someone had dumped a bucket of ice water over his head.
He recognized this man. Graham—CEO of the Powell Group. In Empire City's elite circles, the guy was notorious. He went through girlfriends faster than he went through dress shirts.
Within moments, the villa door swung open.
Angela emerged wearing a silk slip nightgown with a loose knit cardigan thrown carelessly over it. Her hair spilled across her shoulders. She was barefoot, standing on the front steps.
The second Benjamin saw her, a pathetic flicker of hope sparked in his chest. Maybe they were just friends. Maybe it was work-related.
Then, in the next breath, he watched Angela rise onto her tiptoes, loop both arms around Graham's neck, and kiss him—right there in the open, like no one else existed.
Graham's hand slid down to her ass without hesitation. Through that thin silk, he gave it a hard squeeze. Angela let out a startled squeal—playful, teasing.
"Stop it, what's the rush?" Her voice wasn't loud, but in the quiet night, it carried clearly across the street to Benjamin's ears.
There wasn't a trace of reluctance in her tone. Just flirtation. Invitation. He couldn't lie to himself anymore.
Graham chuckled low in his throat and pulled her toward the doorway by the waist. As the door shut behind them, Benjamin heard it—the sound of his own heart shattering.
What would happen next… he wasn't some naïve kid. He understood perfectly.
Benjamin stayed crouched there, motionless. His nails dug into his palms until they drew blood, but he felt nothing. All he could see was Angela on her tiptoes kissing Graham, the image looping endlessly in his mind—each frame like a dull blade sawing back and forth through his chest.
So even if she couldn't have William, it would never be Benjamin's turn. In her eyes, he'd been nothing but a joke from the start.
He stayed outside that villa all night. From dusk until dawn. The early morning dew soaked through his hair and jacket. His lips turned white, then purple from the cold. The mosquito bites on his legs went from itchy to numbingly swollen. But he didn't move an inch.
He told himself: trust her one more time. He had to ask her face-to-face.
The next morning at seven, the villa door finally opened.
Graham stepped out, impeccably dressed, every hair in place. His driver was already holding the rear door open for him. As he bent to get in, there was a satisfied smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. Benjamin's stomach lurched.
Twenty minutes later, Angela came out too—dressed in a white sundress now, polished from head to toe.
Benjamin shot up from the ground. Both legs had gone completely numb—thousands of needles stabbing into them—and he nearly stumbled and fell. But he didn't care. He staggered across the street, desperate to confront her.
He was too late. Angela was already sliding into her white Porsche. The engine roared to life. Her taillights flashed once before she pulled out through Maplewood's gates.
Benjamin stood there in the empty driveway, chest heaving violently, fists clenched so tight his knuckles cracked audibly. He bit down hard on his teeth, spun around, and flagged down a passing cab.
"Follow that white Porsche up ahead."
The cabbie glanced at him in the rearview mirror—this young guy with bloodshot eyes, a dark expression, hair still damp with dew. He looked unhinged.
Benjamin yanked a thick stack of bills from his wallet and slapped them onto the dashboard. The driver eyed the cash, shut his mouth, and hit the gas.
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Angela pulled up at a café called Transit.
Benjamin had the cab stop across the street. Through the floor-to-ceiling windows, he watched her walk toward a corner table where a man he'd never seen before was sitting.
Mid-fifties maybe. Weathered, sun-darkened skin. Wearing a faded work jacket. Thick, stubby fingers with grime permanently embedded under the nails. He looked honest—simple even. Clearly not someone from Angela's world.
Angela sat across from him, pulled a document out of her bag, and slid it over. Then she started talking.
Too far away—Benjamin couldn't hear what they were saying—but he could see Angela's expression. This wasn't the Angela he knew. The Angela he knew was warm, thoughtful, understanding. When she smiled, her eyes crinkled in a way that made you feel safe.
The woman sitting in that café corner right now? Her smile was cold. Her gaze sharp. When she spoke, there was something condescending in the tilt of her mouth—like she was shooing away an annoying fly.
The man across from her looked worse and worse. First he shook his head. Then both hands slammed down on the table hard enough that everyone in the café turned to look.
Angela didn't flinch. She simply lifted her coffee cup and took a delicate sip before saying something else.
The man's anger froze mid-expression—like he'd been struck somewhere vital. His shoulders sagged. He dropped his head and went silent.
When Angela stood and left the café, Benjamin hesitated for a moment in the cab before swallowing the urge to chase after her and demand answers. Instead, he waited until she drove off, then pushed open the café door and walked straight toward the corner where the man still sat staring blankly into space.
"Excuse me—what did that woman just talk to you about?" Benjamin got straight to the point.
The man looked up warily, exhausted. "Who are you? What's it to you?"
"I'm with the Howard family." Benjamin dropped the Howard Group's name—and watched the man's expression shift. Not surprise. Something rawer—anger mixed with helplessness, like an old wound had just been poked.
"What do you people want now? Miss Clifford already made everything perfectly clear. You won't pay us—so how are we supposed to pay our workers? And now you're turning around blaming us for delays? Threatening to send us all to prison during the second trial? That's not right."
Benjamin's heart plummeted. He pulled out a chair and sat down, softening his tone as much as possible. "Could you… tell me exactly what happened? I'm not with her. I just need to know what's going on."