Chapter 130

Her pulse quickened. She opened it.

Inside were contracts, handwritten letters, and bank transfers—all signed by Elias Grant and Francis Andres. One document caught her eye—a new will draft, naming Elias as the legal guardian of all Andres assets if Gregory or Vera were declared unfit or deceased.

Her breath hitched. “He planned everything.” A soft sound broke the silence behind her.

A shuffle of feet.

She turned sharply.

Gregory stood in the doorway. But something about him was different now—colder, sharper, like the mask had finally fallen off.

“So,” he said softly, “you’ve seen it.”

Vera’s chest tightened. “You lied to me again.”

He smiled faintly. “I didn’t lie. I just didn’t tell you which side I was on.”

Her stomach dropped. “You’re working with Elias.”

Gregory nodded. “He offered me what Francis couldn’t—control. Together, we’ll rebuild this empire without the mistakes of the past.”

“You mean without me,” she whispered.

He stepped closer, voice calm. “You were never meant to lead. You were meant to survive. You did that. Now it’s time to let me take it from here.”

Vera stared at him, her heart breaking in slow motion. “You’d take everything again—even after seeing what Francis did?”

Gregory’s expression softened for a moment. “You’re too much like her. Too emotional. Too human.”

Her hand moved slowly toward the table, where a small metal paperweight lay. “And you’re too much like him.”

He sighed. “Don’t make me hurt you, Vera. I still love you.”

“You don’t know what love means.”

Before he could react, she swung the paperweight. It hit his shoulder, sending him staggering back.

She ran for the door, but he grabbed her wrist, slamming her into the wall. “You think you can win against me?” he hissed.

Vera shoved him away and gasped, clutching her stomach. The pain came again—sharper this time, deeper. She froze, realizing what was happening.

Gregory frowned. “You’re bleeding.”

She looked down. A red stain spread slowly across her dress.

“No,” she whispered, panic flooding her voice. “Not now.”

He hesitated. “Vera—”

She slapped his hand away. “Don’t touch me!”

He stepped back, conflicted for the first time. “You’re pregnant?”

Tears filled her eyes. “Yes. And you’ll never control my child.”

Then she turned and ran, out of the vault, up the stairs, into the cold night.

⸻

By the time she reached the hospital again, her legs felt weak, her vision blurred. The guards rushed toward her, shouting her name, but their voices were distant.

She collapsed just as the nurse caught her.

“Get a doctor! She’s bleeding!” someone yelled.

Her world dimmed, sounds blending into nothing.

But before darkness claimed her, she heard one voice—gentle, broken, full of love. “Vera...”

Raymond.

Her eyes fluttered open for a second. He was there, standing despite his wound, reaching for her.

“Don’t you dare leave me,” he whispered.

She smiled faintly, tears slipping down her cheeks. “I could say the same.” Then everything went black.Chapter 148 – The Empty Bed

The first thing Vera noticed when she opened her eyes was the silence. Not the soft, peaceful kind—but the hollow, uneasy kind that followed after something terrible. The machines were still there, beeping quietly, but the sound that mattered most—the rhythm of Raymond’s breathing—was gone.

She sat up too fast, pain tearing through her lower belly. Her hand flew to her stomach instinctively, panic rising in her throat.

“Raymond?” she called, voice hoarse. “Raymond!” No answer.

The chair where he used to sit beside her bed was empty. His coat was gone. The flowers he’d brought last week were wilted and dry.

Something inside her cracked.

A nurse rushed in the moment she tried to get out of bed. “Ma’am, please lie back down—”

“Where’s my husband?” Vera demanded, gripping the nurse’s wrist. “Where is he?”

The woman hesitated, eyes full of pity. “He... he left, ma’am.”

“What do you mean he left?” Vera’s voice trembled. “He couldn’t even walk last night!”

The nurse swallowed. “He said his father came to take him home.”

Vera froze. “His father?”

“Yes, ma’am. They signed the discharge papers around dawn. The man had all the documents ready.”

Vera shook her head slowly. “That’s impossible. His father’s been dead for years.”

The nurse looked confused. “I don’t know, ma’am. But he said he was your father too.” The words slammed into her like a physical blow. “My father?” she whispered. Gregory.

Her chest tightened. “Did you see where they went?”

The nurse shook her head. “No, ma’am. The driver who came for them had no plate number. Security said it was a private ambulance.”

Vera stumbled out of bed despite the pain. The nurse tried to stop her, but she pushed past. “Get out of my way.”

Her body felt weak, but anger was stronger than pain. She walked out into the corridor barefoot, hospital gown dragging across the tiles, heart pounding with fear and fury.

⸻

By the time she reached the security office, her vision was blurred again. The head guard stood when he saw her. “Madam Andres—”

“Show me the footage,” she demanded.

He hesitated. “There’s a problem with the recording, ma’am. Around the time your husband was taken, the cameras went dark for fifteen minutes.”

Her hands trembled. “Fifteen minutes?”

“Yes. And when they came back on, the ward was empty.”

Vera leaned against the wall, dizzy. She was so tired of this—of losing, of fighting, of having everything ripped from her again and again.

She took a deep breath, forcing her shaking hands to still. “I want every guard questioned. Every nurse who was on duty. Find out who signed those papers.”

“Yes, ma’am,” the guard said quickly.

But deep down, she already knew. Gregory. ⸻

That night, Vera sat in her office in Andres Tower, her hands clasped tightly around a photograph of Raymond.

Outside, the rain came in hard sheets against the glass. The empire she had rebuilt piece by piece felt like a ghost now—silent, watching, waiting to crumble again.

Her secretary entered quietly. “Ma’am, someone is here to see you.”

“Who?”

The woman hesitated. “A child. About twelve, maybe thirteen. He says his name is Leon.”

Vera frowned. “Send him in.”

The boy walked in slowly, dripping wet from the rain. He had brown hair, sharp eyes, and a strange confidence for someone his age.

“Mrs. Andres,” he said politely. “I was told to give you this.”

He handed her a folded piece of paper. She unfolded it, heart racing as she read the first line.

If you ever want to see your husband again, bring the vault key.

There was no signature. Only a location scribbled at the bottom—an abandoned estate on the edge of the city.

Vera looked up. “Who gave this to you?”

Leon shrugged. “A man in a black coat. He said you’d know who he was.”

“Did he give you a name?”

The boy hesitated. “He said to tell you this—‘Blood doesn’t die, it only hides.’” Vera’s stomach dropped. Gregory.

She stood abruptly. “Get my car.”

The boy stepped forward. “You shouldn’t go alone, ma’am. They’re watching you.” Vera studied him. “Who’s watching me?”

He looked over his shoulder nervously. “Everyone.”

⸻

The road to the old estate was empty, lined with twisted trees and fog. The headlights barely cut through the darkness.

Vera’s driver glanced at her through the mirror. “Ma’am, are you sure about this?” “Yes,” she said quietly. “Just keep going.”

They reached the gate an hour later. The rusted metal creaked open as if it had been waiting for her.

She stepped out of the car, clutching the vault key tightly in her palm. Every instinct screamed that it was a trap—but she couldn’t turn back. Not without Raymond.

The air was cold and damp as she walked into the main hall. Dust covered everything, and the faint smell of burnt wood lingered.

“Raymond?” she called out.

Her voice echoed back at her.

Then—footsteps. Slow, deliberate, coming from upstairs.

Vera looked up, her breath catching.

Gregory descended the staircase, dressed in black, his face calm as ever.

“Welcome home, Vera,” he said softly.

“Where is he?” she demanded.

He smiled faintly. “Safe. For now.”

“I swear, if you hurt him—”

“You’ll do what?” His tone was almost mocking. “You have no one left to fight with, Vera. No army, no allies. You’re standing in the ruins of everything you tried to protect.”

“I still have something,” she said coldly. “The truth.”

Gregory chuckled. “The truth doesn’t save anyone. It only breaks them.”

He motioned, and two men stepped out from the shadows, dragging someone forward.

Vera’s heart stopped. Raymond.

He looked pale and weak, a bruise darkening his jaw. His wrists were bound, his head bowed, but he was alive.

“Let him go,” she said, voice shaking. “This is between you and me.”

Gregory tilted his head. “Oh, it’s much bigger than that now. You see, Elias has taken notice of you. He thinks you’re useful.”

“Useful?”

Gregory’s smile vanished. “He wants the empire—completely. And he believes you’ll hand it over if you want your husband and your unborn child to live.”

Vera’s knees almost gave way. “He knows?”

“Of course,” Gregory said softly. “He knows everything.”

Tears blurred her vision. “You’re a monster.”

He shrugged. “Monsters don’t bleed. They survive.”

He held out his hand. “Give me the key, Vera. Save what’s left of your family.”

Vera stared at him for a long moment, her heartbeat a wild drum inside her chest.

Then she smiled faintly. “You taught me one thing, Father. Never hand your weapon to the enemy.”

Gregory frowned. “What are you talking about?”

She lifted the vault key—and snapped it in half.

“No!” Gregory roared, lunging toward her.

But before he could reach her, a gunshot rang out. One of the men beside him dropped to the floor, blood spreading fast.

Vera turned sharply. Leon stood at the doorway, holding a pistol too big for his small hands. “Run!” he shouted.

Vera grabbed Raymond’s arm and pulled him toward the exit. Gregory shouted orders behind them, bullets echoing through the hall.

They stumbled into the rain, running until their legs burned.

Vera glanced back once—just once—and saw Gregory standing at the door, his face twisted in fury and something else.

Pride.

⸻

They reached the car. Raymond collapsed in the back seat, gasping for breath. Vera knelt beside him, tears streaming down her face.

“I thought I lost you,” she whispered.

He tried to speak but coughed instead. “You... didn’t.”

She smiled weakly, brushing his hair back. “You have to rest now. We’re going home.” But as the driver sped away, Leon stared out the window, his face unreadable.

Vera noticed the mark on his wrist—an old tattoo shaped like a serpent eating its tail. The same mark Francis had.

Her breath caught. “Leon... who are you really?”

The boy looked at her and smiled. “I told you, Mrs. Andres. Blood doesn’t die.”