Chapter 537

Chapter 537

"Zoey, what the hell do you mean by this?! You're punishing Harold — what does any of that have to do with us?! What gives you the right to drag us into this?!"

Scarlett got no response. She asked again.

She had to get Beatrice out of here. That meant cutting Harold loose.

And Mason was useless — still hung up on confessing, on making things right with Zoey.

Zoey didn't want any of that from him. She'd given up on her brother a long time ago. What a fool.

"Mason, open your eyes. Zoey doesn't want anything to do with you as a brother, so you'd better talk some sense into her before someone ends up dead."

Mason didn't answer her.

His face had gone pale, his lips pressed into a thin line. He was staring at Zoey — at those eyes, cold and bottomless as winter water.

She hadn't flinched once at what Beatrice and Scarlett were accused of. Whatever last shred of hope he'd been holding onto quietly burned out.

He understood now. Zoey wasn't just punishing Harold. She was forcing everything into the light — dragging out the truth in everyone, making him choose.

What he owed her, he'd never be able to repay. Not in this lifetime.

If his life could take even a little of the edge off her hatred — if it could give her any relief at all — then so be it.

So he said nothing. He waited. Like a man who had stopped fighting, just waiting for a verdict he knew was coming.

Zoey ignored Scarlett's framing and Mason's gaze. She looked at Beatrice and asked, almost casually: "Didn't you come here to save Harold? Aren't you two together?"

"I chained you up next to him. You should be thanking me."

The words landed like a pin — just enough to pierce straight through the thin veil of devotion Beatrice had been wearing.

Beatrice's heart lurched. The denial came out fast and sharp, her voice pitching higher than she intended: "Even if we're together, there's no way I'm getting hurt for him! He made his mess — why should I be the one to pay for it?!"

She said it without hesitation. Clean. Absolute. And in doing so, laid bare exactly who she was — the selfishness, the cold indifference, no filter left to soften it.

All that talk of undying devotion, of standing by each other no matter what — it evaporated the second her own safety was on the line.

"Ha."

Harold, still pinned to the ground, let out a short, broken laugh. The sound scraped out of him like something being torn.

He lifted his head and fixed his eyes on Beatrice. "I knew it. I knew it — you've always been the most selfish woman I've ever met. Back in the basement, you stood there and swore to me — swore — that you were tight with Zoey, that you could get me out of the Garcia Villa in one piece." His voice cracked, raw with pain and something uglier underneath. "And now look at you."

Every word came out ragged, burning: "Liar. You're a goddamn liar, through and through. All you ever cared about was yourself. You were scared. Scared to get dragged down with me." He bared his teeth. "You're nothing but a snake in a pretty skin."

Beatrice went rigid. The fury hit her all at once — her whole body shaking, eyes stinging before she could stop it.

This time it wasn't an act.

It was real. The anger, the panic — and somewhere underneath, a helpless, choking knot of fear and humiliation with nowhere to go.

She wanted to scream it all out loud.

Fine. Yes. I'm selfish. Every single thing I've done has been for myself.

I never chose any of this. I'm not even Beatrice — I'm Cleo. I don't give a damn whether you live or die, Harold. The only reason I ever came near you was because Viper had me backed into a corner, because I couldn't risk being exposed.

But not one word of that could leave her mouth.

She clenched her jaw until it ached. Drove her nails into her palm. Used the pain to hold herself together.

Don't crack. Don't let this idiot pull you under with him.

Zoey was right there watching. So was Alexander. She couldn't fall apart. She couldn't slip.

She pulled in a slow breath and forced everything back down — buried it under the cool, composed mask she'd spent years perfecting. When she looked down at Harold again, her expression had settled into something flat and contemptuous.

"I'm selfish?" Her voice was steady. "Take a good look at yourself, Harold. You went after Mr. Garcia over some pathetic, one-sided obsession. You're the real lunatic here — charging in without a plan, without a care for your own life, perfectly happy to drag everyone else down with you."

She let that sit for a beat. Then the corner of her mouth pulled into something close to a smile — cold, self-aware, and faintly cruel.

"A lunatic and a liar. Sounds like a perfect match to me."

It was a rebuttal. It was also, in its own way, an admission — of everything hollow and brittle that had ever existed between them.

She didn't wait for his reaction. She turned away from Harold's burning stare and looked directly at Zoey.

"Ms. King," she said, her voice firm. "I think just taking his right hand is letting him off too easy."

The room went still.

Even Zoey paused.

Harold's eyes went wide, disbelief cracking through the rage. "You bitch — what are you doing?"

Beatrice held steady under every pair of eyes in the room.

"What Harold did wasn't some petty grudge match or a moment of bad judgment. He attempted to kill Mr. Garcia. That goes well beyond any ordinary dispute."

"Ms. King, Mr. Garcia — the fact that you're willing to let him keep his life at all is already more grace than he deserves. One hand is not enough to balance what he's done."

"How is one hand supposed to make him remember? How is it supposed to mean anything to someone like him?"

She kept going, and the words came faster now, sharper:

"If you ask me, one hand isn't nearly enough. He reached for something he had no right to reach for. He picked up a weapon he had no right to touch. Both hands should stay right here."

"That's the only way to cut off whatever's still going through his head. The only way to make sure he can never come after Ms. King or Mr. Garcia again."

"Beatrice!!"

Harold's scream tore out of him like something feral. His eyes had gone wild, every vein in his neck straining as he thrashed against the ropes — furious, frantic, completely unhinged — fighting the restraints like a cornered animal with nowhere left to run.

"Are you out of your mind?! Who the hell do you think you are?! You don't get to decide anything for me! You're nothing — you're poison, you're a snake — I will kill you for this!!"

Scarlett stood there like she'd been hollowed out. Staring at Beatrice. Not recognizing the daughter she had thrown herself on the line to protect.

How could she — how could she say something like that?

She'd just pushed Harold over the edge.

And dragged them both to the opposite side of that line right along with him.

Mason stared too. Something in his expression had gone very quiet, and very cold.

The Cleo he remembered — spoiled, self-centered, sometimes manipulative — had never looked like this. Never carried this kind of edge. Calculated. Merciless. Almost cruel.

The woman standing in front of him now made the back of his neck prickle.

Zoey watched Beatrice, and something shifted briefly in her eyes — a flicker of open surprise she didn't quite suppress.

She hadn't expected this. That Beatrice, purely out of self-preservation, would go this far — would push Harold deeper into the dark with her own hands just to prove she wasn't on his side. Just to perform her loyalty.

Interesting.

A quiet laugh slipped out of Zoey.

Low. Unhurried. The kind that came from someone who already knew how every move on the board was going to end.

"You're right," she said, and gave Beatrice a single, measured nod.

Then she glanced toward the bodyguards who had been standing by in silence.

"Take him. Do what Beatrice said."

"No — Zoey — you're going to burn in hell for this — Beatrice — I curse you, you hear me?! I curse you to rot — Viper — Viper won't let any of you walk away from this — !!"

Two bodyguards dragged Harold toward the far end of the back courtyard. A heavy iron door swallowed the sound — and then, a dull thud. A scream that cut off too fast.

Silence reclaimed the yard.

But it was a different kind of silence than before. Heavier. It tasted like copper.

Beatrice's legs had gone to water beneath her. Her back was soaked through — cold sweat pressing her clothes flat against her skin. She drove her nails into her palm one more time and forced herself upright.

She couldn't look at Scarlett. Couldn't face whatever was written on Mason's face.

Zoey and Alexander exchanged a glance — quick, almost imperceptible.

Harold's last desperate shout had confirmed exactly what they'd suspected.

They had their lead.

The iron door opened again.

The two bodyguards stepped back out. There were a few dark flecks on their sleeves that hadn't been there before.

They stopped in front of Zoey, inclined their heads slightly, and said quietly: "It's done, ma'am."

Zoey nodded. Her gaze moved back to Beatrice, who was doing a poor job of looking composed.

"Beatrice." Her tone had returned to something almost conversational. "You can take your boyfriend with you now."

A brief pause — and then, with the particular cruelty of someone who was also being genuinely helpful:

"You should probably get him to a hospital within the next ten minutes. There's still a chance they can reattach it."