Chapter 222

Chapter 222

"Elowen, what good does cursing me do now? We're in the same boat. If I go down, you won't escape either."

Elowen's face went even paler. "You... what do you mean?"

Rupert set down his glass and looked at her. "I have your transfer records. That money came from your account. Every cent—which day it was withdrawn, which bank—I remember all of it. And those photos of our meetings—Harper has them, but so do I. If I get detained, I'm definitely giving you up. That money of yours is enough to get you sentenced to prison for several years."

Elowen stood up abruptly. "You're threatening me?"

Rupert shook his head. "I'm not threatening you. I'm telling you we can only work together now. There's no other way. You think pushing me out will let you escape? Dream on. You provided that money. You nodded along to those plans. The night the grave was destroyed, where were you? The night the exhibition was sabotaged, where were you again? You think the police can't find out?"

Elowen stared at him for a long time, then slowly sat down.

Her hands were trembling so badly she couldn't even hold her glass steady. "Then what do you say we do now?"

Rupert was silent for a while.

Then he said, "I'm going to kill Harper."

Elowen froze. "You're insane?"

Rupert's eyes gleamed with madness. "I'm not insane. I've thought this through very clearly. She has evidence now and can turn us in anytime. Rather than wait to be arrested, it's better to strike first. If she dies, that evidence becomes meaningless. The police will investigate others, not us."

Elowen's lips trembled. "You... how do you plan to kill her? That's murder! If you're caught, you'll get the death penalty!"

Rupert smiled. "Caught? How would we get caught? We do it cleanly—who'll know it was us? Let's go at night, wear gloves, wear a mask, leave no fingerprints, no traces. Stab and run—who can see clearly who it was?"

Elowen looked at him like he was a stranger.

She suddenly regretted cooperating with this man.

But she had no way back now.

Whether she went or not, she had to go. Moreover, if Harper died, it would definitely be more beneficial than harmful to her. After all, she wouldn't be the one doing it!

"You... what's your plan?"

Rupert leaned closer, lowering his voice. "Her studio's security—I've scoped it out. The back door lock is old-fashioned, very easy to pick. When there are few people at night, we'll enter through the back door and go straight to the third floor. Her office is at the very back. The door's unlocked."

As he spoke, he pulled out a knife from his pocket and placed it on the table.

The blade gleamed coldly in the dim light. "This knife—I sharpened it all afternoon. One stab and no one can save her."

Elowen looked at the knife, her whole body trembling.

But she didn't refuse.

Two nights later at 2 AM, Rupert and Elowen appeared outside Harper's studio building.

They wore black clothes, masks and hats, bundling themselves up tightly with only their eyes showing.

Rupert carried a bag containing the knife.

The blade was wrapped in cloth, but you could still feel its cold menace.

Elowen followed behind him, palms sweating, back sweating, her clothes completely soaked.

"You're sure you can get in?" she asked softly, her voice shaking badly.

Rupert nodded. "I had someone check the back door lock. It's one of those old pin tumbler locks, very easy to pick. I've done this before—I can handle it in ten minutes."

They circled to the back door—a small alley, pitch black without even streetlights.

Rupert pulled out a wire from his pocket and inserted it into the keyhole.

A soft click—the lock opened.

The two exchanged glances, pushed open the door, and slipped inside.

Inside was pitch black, only emergency lights emitting weak, eerie greenish light that made everything look sinister.

Rupert turned on his phone's flashlight, illuminating the path ahead.

"She's on the third floor," he said in a low voice. "Be careful going up. Don't make noise. The stairs are concrete—footsteps will carry far."

Elowen nodded and followed behind him.

They climbed the stairs, each step cautious, toes touching down first, then slowly lowering their heels.

But there was still sound, especially clear in the quiet stairwell.

She regretted following Rupert a bit, but she truly wanted to see Harper pay the price with her own eyes—the price for stealing her man.

Reaching the second floor, Rupert suddenly stopped.

Elowen nearly bumped into him. "What's wrong?"

Rupert didn't answer, only stared at a door at the end of the hallway.

The door had a sign on it—Archive Room.

White background with black text, very ordinary. But the door was ajar, weak light seeping from inside.

The light was faint, but in this pitch-black hallway, it was particularly striking.

Rupert's heartbeat suddenly accelerated.

Archive room.

What would be inside?

He remembered Harper's expression that day, remembered her words—she knew what they'd done, she had evidence.

When she said those things, so calm, so certain, as if holding some winning card.

Would her evidence be stored here?

Rupert turned around and said to Elowen, "Wait here. I'm going in to look."

Elowen was startled. "Look at what? Aren't we going to..."

"Stop talking." Rupert interrupted her, his voice very low but carrying undeniable ferocity. "Wait."

He pushed open the door and walked in.

The archive room wasn't large. Four walls lined with filing cabinets—gray metal cabinets in neat rows.

A computer sat on the center table, screen still lit, displaying some document.

Rupert walked over and looked at the screen.

Then he froze.

It was a contract.

The contract clearly read: Designer Elysian and the Stuart Group Strategic Cooperation Agreement.

Designer Elysian?

Rupert frowned.

Of course he knew who that was.

That was the legendary top designer in design circles for years, incredibly mysterious. No one ever knew who it was, no one had ever seen Elysian's true face.

They only knew Elysian's works each commanded astronomical prices, only accepting orders from top-tier clients, only serving those truly important people. In the industry, Elysian's status was transcendent—an existence everyone looked up to.

But what did this have to do with Harper?

He continued reading.

Then his pupils suddenly contracted.

The contract clearly stated: Party A Representative—Harper.

Rupert's hands began to tremble.

He continued looking through other documents.

One after another, all Elysian's contracts, agreements, and authorizations.

Partners included domestic top luxury brands, foreign design giants, and major companies he'd never dared dream of before.

On every single one, Harper's name was signed.

And those design drafts.