Chapter 236 Caught in the Act?
Jasper's expression remained composed, but his words landed in Amelia's chest like weighted stones, each one pulling her deeper into a cold, heavy silence.
From the first moment she met Belle, Amelia had sensed something unusual about her. The girl's features were almost unnaturally refined, like porcelain shaped by a meticulous hand. Her skin was pale enough to catch the light, her hair a cascade of gold so rich that dust itself seemed reluctant to touch it. She looked like someone who had been sheltered her whole life, kept safe behind glass walls.
Reality shattered that image quickly.
Belle was not fragile in the way Amelia had imagined. She was considerate, quietly strong. She worried about burdening others, expressed genuine gratitude for kindness, and had the courage to take on work in a city she barely knew. She was not afraid to endure hardship. She was not afraid to stand in unfamiliar spaces.
So when Amelia learned that Belle was the daughter of Sulien's only Duke of the First Rank—a title second only to the royal princesses—her shock was almost physical. But it was nothing compared to what came next.
The truth was staggering. Belle had witnessed her mother, in the grip of madness, murder her father. She had nearly been killed herself, her mother's hands crushing the air from her lungs. And in a desperate, instinctive act of survival, she had driven a knife into her mother's throat.
The images came to Amelia's mind immediate, vivid, and merciless.
A night of pounding rain. Lightning spilling white fire across the walls. The air thick with cold dampness, the relentless roar of water outside. Belle, gasping for breath, her vision narrowing. The knife flashing. Warm blood surging in a sudden, terrible spray, painting her face and clothes. Her mother's eyes wide in shock, the crimson river spilling down her neck, the sharp metallic scent flooding Belle's senses until it became something she would carry forever.
Even imagining it made Amelia's skin crawl, her palms prickle with cold sweat.
"You are saying," she drew in a steadying breath, her gaze locked on Jasper, "that after... after killing your mother, Belle disappeared the next day?"
"Yes." Jasper's voice was still calm, but his pale green eyes held a muted sorrow. "I believe she could not bear the truth of what she had done. So she ran."
"When Christine was a child, our mother brought her to River City in Celestria once. That trip stayed with her. I think that is why she chose this place."
It all sounded plausible—unable to face the past, she fled to a city tied to an old memory. Then came the accident, the amnesia, the traffickers. Even without remembering, some deep part of her recoiled from the idea of going home.
And yet... Amelia could not shake the feeling that something in the story did not quite fit. She could not name it, but it was there, a quiet dissonance beneath the surface.
"I understand," she said at last, her voice careful. "So what do you plan to do?"
"I have inherited my father's title," Jasper replied. "And I have concealed the true cause of my parents' deaths. No one outside will ever know. Christine does not need to carry that shadow."
He leaned forward slightly, his gaze intent, his voice dropping into a low, deliberate cadence. "Christine is the only family I have left... Miss Martinez, you will help me, will you not?"
Jasper's face was the kind that drew the eye—sharp lines softened by grace, like a statue carved in marble yet warmed by life. And when those pale green eyes carried sadness and plea, it was difficult to imagine anyone saying no.
Amelia did not intend to refuse. She had been trying to find Belle's family for months. Her only hesitation had been the fear Belle held toward returning home. Now, knowing the truth, with her brother here to take her back, there was no reason to stand in the way.
"Belle has been working at the dessert shop. She finishes at six every evening. She should be back at my apartment by now. If you are eager, we could go after dinner. Maybe seeing you will bring her memory back."
"No," Jasper said with a small shake of his head, leaning back in his chair. "It is late. If she saw me now, she would not sleep tonight."
"If you are free tomorrow morning, we can meet then. I would like to see Christine at work... she has never left the estate before."
Amelia glanced at her watch. He was right—it was not early. "Alright. Ten o'clock tomorrow, outside your hotel." As she met his eyes, a faint warning stirred in her chest.
He was every inch the gentleman—polite, poised, the quiet authority of a man born into privilege. But beneath those eyes, she thought she glimpsed something else. A darker pull, deep and slow, like currents moving far below the surface.
"Good," he said with an easy smile.
Dinner ended at nine. Amelia insisted on paying and offered to call him a car back to his hotel.
He hesitated. "It is close. Easier to walk, though I am not familiar with the route."
"I will check." She pulled up a map on her phone. "Ten minutes on foot. I will walk you there."
"If it is a bother, I can navigate myself," he said, watching her as if gauging whether she truly meant it.
"It is no bother. That is what friends do."
Outside, the street still wore its Christmas decorations. The air carried traces of the holiday—faint cinnamon drifting through the winter chill, the kind that invited you to breathe it in. It was a weekday, and the sidewalks were quiet. Cars passed now and then, their headlights stretching long reflections across the wet pavement.
They passed a familiar coffee chain. Jasper mentioned he liked a cup before bed, so they stepped inside.
While the coffee was being made, Amelia scanned the seating area.
And then she saw him.
Michael.
He sat across from a young woman with long, loose waves and a tailored designer suit.
The woman's profile was flawless, her movements graceful, her smile subtle but warm. She was watching Michael closely, her attention fixed, and from the easy rhythm of their conversation, they seemed to be enjoying themselves.