Chapter 525

"Mason."

Alexander's voice suddenly cut through the silence, echoing clearly in the quiet living room.

Mason snapped back to attention, jerking his head up. Without warning, his eyes locked with Alexander's.

Those eyes were too deep, too heavy—like a freezing pool with no visible bottom. Devoid of emotion, yet somehow suffocating him with their weight.

"I'm curious."

"Back then, why did you help Cleo frame Zoey and send her to prison?"

Mason's entire body went rigid.

His blood seemed to freeze in that instant, then drain rapidly from his feet downward, leaving his limbs ice-cold.

He opened his mouth, but his throat produced no sound. He could only open and close it uselessly, like a fish out of water.

Instinctively, he looked toward Zoey—whether seeking rescue or some small comfort, he didn't know.

Zoey continued holding her teacup, eyes downcast, watching the tea leaves drift in the liquid. Her profile remained utterly calm, as if Alexander had asked about something trivial and completely unrelated to her.

But Mason knew better.

This was never trivial.

This was the chasm between them as siblings—a chasm he had dug with his own hands, then pushed Zoey into himself.

"Zoey doesn't ask," Alexander's voice came again, still flat but crystal clear, "but that doesn't mean she doesn't care."

He paused, his gaze locking onto Mason's ashen face.

"But I care."

"And I need to get to the bottom of this for her."

Mason's fingertips began trembling uncontrollably.

Hearing Alexander's question, Scarlett felt her hands and feet turn ice-cold in an instant.

Sitting here, every second felt like balancing on a knife's edge.

If not for Beatrice, she would never set foot in this place again for the rest of her life, let alone sit peacefully with Zoey over tea.

Alexander's question was directed at Mason, but that cold stare, that invisible pressure—it blanketed everyone present.

Scarlett had zero doubt that if Alexander felt even slightly displeased right now, crushing her would be like stepping on an ant.

Zoey might still consider their blood relation to some degree, but Alexander's ruthlessness was an open secret in their entire social circle.

Her hands resting on her knees trembled beyond her control. She dug her fingertips deep into her palms, using pain to force herself to stay alert and composed.

Yet her eyes remained glued to Mason's face, filled with terror and a barely detectable urging.

'Answer him! Smooth this over! Don't make him angry!'

Mason ignored Scarlett, instead looking at Zoey with anguish.

The truth was, this matter was like a poisoned thorn lodged between him and Zoey—and embedded in his own heart as well.

He deliberately avoided thinking about it, touching it, consoling himself with excuses, as if refusing to face it would make the thorn cease to exist.

He never expected Alexander would bring it up at this moment, in this way—so direct, so sharp—ripping it out and laying it bloodily before everyone.

Mason had always wanted to know what Zoey would say, but Zoey remained calm.

That calmness unsettled Mason more than any violent reaction could.

His throat felt dry. He swallowed before finally finding his voice: "Mr. Garcia, what happened back then was just a misunderstanding. I've already explained everything to Zoey."

"Besides, that's the King family's business. It doesn't really concern you, does it, Mr. Garcia?"

The moment the words left his mouth, Mason regretted them.

Because he saw Alexander let out a cold laugh.

The sound was brief, nearly devoid of warmth, yet it dropped the temperature in the room several more degrees.

Alexander's arm, previously resting casually on the sofa's armrest, moved.

He leaned back slightly, positioning his arm across the back of the sofa behind Zoey in a gesture of absolute possession and protection.

The movement was small, almost casual, yet it felt like a silent declaration—a solid barrier.

He had completely drawn Zoey into his territory.

"How does it not concern me?"

Alexander spoke, his voice still not raised, yet each word landed clearly on Mason's eardrums, heavy as lead.

"Zoey is my wife."

"Every wrong done to her, no matter how long ago, no matter by whom—"

He paused, his gaze sweeping across Mason's pale face and Scarlett's terrified eyes.

"I intend to sort them out, one by one, and resolve them."

"Mason, tell me—how does this not concern me?"

Mason's pupils shook violently.

Only now did he truly realize Alexander was serious.

He wasn't just rehashing old grievances for Zoey or venting on her behalf. He genuinely intended to dig up that past incident and expose it under harsh daylight.

And Mason himself would be the one put on trial.

Cold sweat instantly soaked through Mason's undershirt.

Why had he done it back then?

Memory fragments surged up uncontrollably.

Cleo's red-rimmed eyes. Her trembling voice: "Mason, I'm so scared. Does Zoey really hate me? Why else would she do that?"

Scarlett's sighs and hesitations: "Mason, Zoey's temperament is extreme, but Cleo is kind-hearted. You know her—she wouldn't lie..."

Their father Aiden's pained, disappointed gaze: "A disgrace to this family. Zoey, you've let me down so deeply!"

And then...

And then there was that secret thought buried in his own heart, one he refused to acknowledge even to himself.

He thought Zoey was too cold, too isolated, always wrapping herself in a hard shell, keeping everyone at arm's length with her sharp edges.

He thought she was disobedient, unmanageable, constantly challenging his authority as her older brother.

He thought Cleo was sweet, sensible, considerate—more deserving of protection.

So when everyone accused Zoey, he thought letting her go to prison to cool off, to suffer a little, would teach her the importance of family.

What high-minded, yet utterly stupid and laughable reasoning.

Looking back now, he realized how vile his thinking had been.

But how could he say it out loud?

That he'd been biased? That he thought Zoey wasn't obedient enough, so he'd tacitly approved—even helped push—that frame-up?

That because of some ridiculous, self-righteous sense of brotherly authority, he'd personally sent his sister to prison?

Mason's lips trembled. He couldn't force out a single word.

He looked to Scarlett for help. She quickly averted her gaze, head bowed, staring at her shoes.

He looked at Zoey again.

Zoey finally lifted her eyes.

Those eyes were beautiful—clear, bright—but covered in a layer of ice that would never melt.

They held no expectation, no emotion, not even disappointment. Only stillness.

Watching Mason struggle to speak, Zoey found it almost laughable.

Look at him. Her own brother.

Three years, and still not a single word of genuine remorse.

Even now, under Alexander's pressure, his thoughts weren't about apologizing or telling the truth—only about justifying himself, about preserving his pitiful, pathetic dignity as her older brother.

She thought of Cleo's medical malpractice case. The innocent patient who died. How the entire King family—including this dear brother of hers—had thrown her under the bus without hesitation, how they'd all spoken with one voice to nail her to the pillar of shame as a murderer.

After her release, it wasn't that she hadn't given them chances.

She'd waited. Even just for an apology. Even for a hint of guilt or realization.

But what had she gotten instead?

Mason accusing her of being petty. Saying she'd ruined the King family. Calling her vicious.

Even when Scarlett goaded him into coming back to seize control of the King Group, producing that share transfer document, he'd still stood against her without hesitation.

In Mason's heart, his own sister probably wasn't worth even one of Cleo's fingers.

The obsession she once couldn't understand now dissolved into nothing.

It wasn't that she couldn't understand. She simply no longer wanted to.

This person, this heart—rotten through and through.

She didn't want it anymore.