Chapter 90 The Mystery of the Black Ice Project

Chapter 90 The Mystery of the Black Ice Project

"I can help you," Sophia said slowly, pulling her hand free. "But I want you to tell me everything you know about the Black Ice Project. Every single word. And not one lie."

Megan's eyes flickered with panic. She shook her head instinctively. "I know nothing about it. That was between John and your father. Why are you digging into this?"

"Is that so?" Sophia arched a brow. "Then what is inside the locked mahogany box in your room? The one John left you. The one with the letter about the Black Ice Project, right?"

John had once told Megan, "Unless it is a matter of life and death, never open it." 

From what Cecil had hinted, that box held the truth.

Megan went pale. Her lips trembled, but no sound came out.

Sophia's tone softened, though the weight in her voice pressed like a hand to the throat. "This is your only chance. If you want to get rid of Susan and Terry, if you want to keep your place in the Caldwell Family, you have to tell me the truth."

Sunlight began to burn away the morning fog outside, spilling across the living room.

Megan stared at the light, then at Sophia's steady gaze. She deflated like air leaving a balloon and sank deeper into the couch. 

Her voice was hoarse, "Fine. I'll tell you. I'll tell you everything."

The hatred in her eyes faded, leaving only exhaustion — the kind that comes from carrying a secret for thirty years.

Megan sat in silence for what felt like an eternity, her eyes unfocused, as though she had been pulled back through time to thirty years ago.

"The night before John died, he gave me that mahogany box," she said, her voice rough as sandpaper. "He told me it contained something that could destroy the Caldwell Family. Unless the family was on the brink of ruin, I was never to open it."

Sophia stood, watching her, saying nothing.

"The Black Ice Project," Megan continued, her Adam's apple bobbing, "was never a business venture. It was smuggling. Antiques. Paintings. And things far darker than that.

"They brought in partners. When the profits were split unevenly, some were dumped into the river. Others vanished."

Her fingers dug into the armrest. "John said one man survived. He swore to wipe out the Caldwell Family. John hid all the evidence in that box. If he died, I was to use it to bargain with the man — half the family fortune in exchange for our lives."

Sophia's brow tightened. "Henry is his son. Why not tell him?"

"Tell him?" Megan gave a bitter laugh. "With his temper? He would march straight to the man with a knife. And then we'd lose him too."

She drew in a deep breath and let the final piece fall. "And John warned me — if I ever exposed the truth, I would never see a cent of the money he hid in Rosalia Bank."

Sophia understood. Megan cared more about money than anything. John had known exactly how to keep her quiet.

"How much is it?" Sophia asked.

"I don't know the exact figure," Megan said. "Enough to buy my own island overseas."

"Oscar is involved in this?" Sophia pressed.

At the name, Megan's eyes hardened. "He's the son of the man who was thrown into the river. And John, in his infinite stupidity, brought him into the Caldwell Corporation."

Sophia's fingers twitched slightly, her mind stitching together the fragments into a single, sharp picture. Then another thought struck her.

"And Terry?" she asked.

"He has my photos," Megan muttered, turning her face away. "If they get out, I will ruin the Caldwell Family's name."

Sophia didn't ask for details. She turned toward the stairs, the morning light stretching her shadow long across the floor.

Megan watched her go, a chill settling in her chest. There was a kind of cold precision in this young woman that made her uneasy. 

"You really will help me?" she finally asked.

"I will," Sophia said without slowing her pace.

By the time Henry returned home that evening, this was the scene he found — Sophia sitting cross-legged on the living room rug, surrounded by a scatter of sticky notes. The sunset poured through the tall windows, painting her face in gold, her lashes casting fine shadows across her cheeks.

"You're back," she said without looking up. 

She picked up a note from the coffee table and held it out to him. "Read this. Oscar's father was Soren Caldwell, your father's distant cousin."

Henry froze halfway through taking off his shoes. "You found that out?"

"Your mother told me." Sophia arranged the notes in chronological order. "John and my father smuggled at least seven shipments. Three disappeared."

She rose, a little unsteady. Henry instinctively reached out to steady her, his fingers brushing the heat of her arm. 

"You're burning up. You have a fever."

"Just a cold," she said, stepping away. She sat on the couch and reached for her glass, only to find it empty.

Henry said nothing, just went to the kitchen and returned with a fresh glass of water.

"Megan says John left a mahogany box," Sophia said, taking the glass from him. "Inside are ledgers and a list of names."

She tilted her head back and drank. Henry's gaze lingered on the sharp line of her jaw. He remembered what Edward had told him that morning — Sophia had been in the Caldwell Corporation archives until three a.m., combing through thirty years of records.

"How much did you manage to note down?" he asked.

Sophia set the glass down and pulled a notebook from under the table. Every page was filled edge to edge with names, dates, even shipment weights.

"Every word your mother said is in here," she said, pointing to a line. "And here — this is odd. Three years ago there was a shipment she says Cecil handled. But last year Cecil told me he never touched smuggling."

Henry leaned over to look, his hair brushing her cheek. Sophia turned her head slightly — and found herself caught in his gaze. There was no surprise in his eyes, only the quiet recognition of someone who had just found the missing piece to a priceless puzzle.

"Tomorrow I'll look for that box," Henry said, straightening. "Tonight, you rest."

Sophia didn't answer. Her head was already bent over the notebook again.

The lights in the living room burned late into the night.