Chapter 538

Chapter 538

Beatrice's whole body shuddered, and she nearly threw up.

She bit down hard on her jaw to keep from losing it completely.

She knew Zoey was doing this on purpose.

Making her clean up Harold's mess with her own hands.

Making her face the Rogers family's fury when it came crashing down.

But she had no choice.

"Thank you, Ms. King." Beatrice forced the words through clenched teeth, her voice dry and hoarse.

She glanced at the fresh pool of blood on the floor, her stomach lurching.

She looked at Mason desperately. He was her only hope now.

"Mason..." Beatrice's tears fell right on cue, though this time they weren't entirely fake—they came from genuine fear and the panic of being backed into a corner. "Please, help me. I can't do this alone..."

Mason stared at Beatrice's tear-streaked face, at those familiar pleading eyes that reminded him so much of Cleo, and something twisted sharply in his chest.

He wanted to refuse. He wanted to turn around and walk away. He wanted to tell Beatrice she'd brought this all on herself.

But...

That face. Those eyes. They still managed to reach the softest part of his heart.

He closed his eyes. When he opened them again, all that remained was weary indifference.

"...Let's go." His voice was rough. He didn't look at Beatrice again, just had someone carry the unconscious Harold out ahead of them.

Scarlett breathed a sigh of relief and quickly helped the trembling Beatrice follow.

The lights in the VIP operating room at the city's top private hospital were blindingly bright.

The hallway reeked of disinfectant mixed with a faint trace of blood that made you want to gag.

Beatrice leaned against the cold wall, pale-faced and still trembling slightly.

Mason stood not far away, silently smoking. The curling smoke obscured his complicated expression.

Scarlett paced anxiously, constantly glancing toward the closed operating room doors.

Beatrice didn't wait long.

She took a deep breath, pulled out her phone, and dialed a number.

In the hospital corridor, the smell of disinfectant was sharp and cold.

The red light above the operating room glowed like a puddle of congealed blood.

Beatrice leaned against the wall, ashen-faced, her fingers still trembling faintly. The scenes kept replaying in her mind—Harold's bloodless face as they wheeled him into surgery, the doctor's stunned comment that "ten more minutes and we couldn't have saved him," and the way those nurses had looked at her...

She took a deep breath and pulled out her phone.

Her finger hovered over the screen for two seconds before dialing the number.

The phone rang for a long time before someone picked up.

"Hello?" Wesley's voice came through, tired and irritated.

"Mr. Rogers!" Beatrice's voice immediately took on a tearful quality. "It's me. This is Beatrice from the Grace family. Your son Harold—something happened to him."

"What?!"

Half an hour later.

Wesley stumbled out of the elevator, hair disheveled, eyes bloodshot, his suit buttons fastened wrong.

He practically lunged at Beatrice, gripping her shoulders hard.

"Where's Harold?! Where is he?!"

Beatrice winced at his grip, tears streaming down her face. "Mr. Rogers, Harold's still in surgery..."

Wesley jerked his head up toward those closed doors, the red light above them like a mocking eye.

He released Beatrice and staggered back two steps, nearly falling.

"What happened..." His voice was hoarse as a broken drum. "What the hell happened?!"

Beatrice covered her mouth, crying too hard to speak.

Scarlett stepped forward from the side, steadying the swaying Beatrice, and said to Wesley, "Mr. Rogers, it was Zoey..."

Wesley whipped around, his eyes flashing with terrifying hatred. "Zoey?!"

"She had him beaten." Scarlett's voice was low but perfectly pitched with righteous indignation. "She had Harold dragged away without asking questions, used vigilante justice, beat him half to death. If Beatrice and Mason hadn't risked going to the Garcia Villa to rescue him, Harold might have..."

She couldn't finish, just shook her head and sighed.

Wesley's face turned iron gray, veins bulging at his temples. He looked like a powder keg about to explode.

"Zoey!" He ground out the name through clenched teeth, his hatred almost tangible.

He'd known that after Alexander took Harold, Zoey would retaliate, but he hadn't expected them to actually go this far.

And when did Harold get mixed up with the Grace family's daughter?

Beatrice looked up at him, eyes brimming with tears. "Mr. Rogers, I should have gotten Harold out sooner. This is all my fault for being useless."

Wesley took a deep breath, suppressing the churning emotions, and looked at this tear-stained Beatrice.

"What's your relationship with my son?"

Beatrice lowered her head, her voice barely audible. "I'm Harold's girlfriend."

Wesley froze.

He looked at the Beatrice standing before him.

The Grace family's newly recognized second daughter. He'd heard she'd been abroad all this time, gentle-natured and low-profile.

When did Harold, that troublemaker, get a girlfriend like this?

But if she wasn't his girlfriend, who would risk offending the Garcia family to save him?

Wesley's gaze fell on Beatrice's swollen, reddened eyes. He pushed down his doubts.

"Good girl. You've been through a lot. When Harold comes out, I'll make sure he thanks you properly."

Beatrice kept her head down and murmured her acknowledgment.

No one saw the flash of relief in her eyes.

Meanwhile, at the Garcia Villa study.

Zoey sat on the sofa, phone in hand, Clea's number on the screen.

The phone rang twice before someone picked up.

"Zoey?" Clea's voice carried a note of surprise. "Calling this late? What's up?"

Zoey leaned back against the sofa, her tone casual. "Just wanted to tell you something."

"What?"

"Beatrice has a boyfriend."

Silence on the other end for a beat.

"Who?"

"Harold." Zoey's voice was calm. "Harold from the Rogers family."

Another silence from Clea's end.

This one lasted longer.

"Harold?" When Clea spoke again, her voice carried obvious disbelief. "The killer? The one who just got out of prison?"

"Yep."

"How could Beatrice possibly—"

Zoey laughed softly, a sound that carried indefinable meaning. "She says they met abroad. Harold saved her life. They've been together for a while now."

Another stretch of silence from Clea's end.

She knew Beatrice too well.

The girl who'd been brought back into the Grace family less than six months ago. Docile, obedient, careful with everyone, always watching Clea's face before daring to speak an extra word.

Someone like that dating a convicted killer?

Besides, Harold had been in the country all these years. When did he ever go abroad?

"I see." Clea's voice dropped. "Thanks for telling me."

"Don't mention it." Zoey hung up.

Alexander walked over from the other side of the study carrying a glass of warm milk, which he handed to her.

"Done?"

Zoey took the milk and nodded.

Alexander sat beside her, watching her take a sip before asking, "I heard Wesley went to the hospital. Think he'll buy it?"

"Doesn't matter if he believes it or not." Zoey cradled the glass, her gaze drifting to the darkness outside. "What matters is that Wesley needs a reason—a reason to break with the Garcia family that he can justify. Beatrice handed him that reason. He'll take it."

Alexander looked at her, amusement in his eyes. "You're that certain?"

Zoey turned to meet his gaze, the corner of her mouth curving slightly. "When you're fishing, you have to give the fish time to bite."

Alexander slipped his arm around her waist and pulled her closer.

"And after the fish bites?"

Zoey leaned against his shoulder, her voice lazy. "We'll deal with that when we get there."

Alexander lowered his head and kissed her forehead.

He knew Zoey had it all figured out.

Everything she did, every move she made, had her reasons.

He didn't need to ask questions. He just needed to stand beside her.

The Grace Mansion.

Clea set down her phone and sat at her desk, unmoving for a long time.

The night outside was heavy. Her reflection in the glass showed a furrowed brow.

Harold. Beatrice.

Those two names together felt absurd no matter how she thought about it.

But Zoey wouldn't call without reason.

She picked up her phone, scrolled to Beatrice's number in her contacts, but hesitated before dialing.

Ask what?

Ask if she's really dating Harold?

She wouldn't tell the truth anyway.

Clea put down the phone and rubbed her temples.

She suddenly remembered how Beatrice had looked earlier when asking for time off—that panicked retreat, those evasive eyes, that momentary loss of control.

So it was for Harold.

She took a deep breath and picked up her phone again, dialing a different number.

"Hello, I need you to look into Beatrice's recent call logs. And track her movements."

After hanging up, Clea leaned back in her chair and stared at the ceiling.

Beatrice, just how many secrets are you hiding? Who are you really?

As long as it didn't harm the Grace family, she wouldn't interfere. But if it damaged the Grace family's interests or reputation, she'd have to cut out the problem at its root.