Chapter220 An Apology at the Door
The next day. The Prescott living room.
Miranda had planned to head to the office, but Clifton stopped her before she could leave.
"Martinez is coming over today to answer for what happened," he said. "Stay."
The memory of that sickly sweet smell in the Martinez lounge room was enough to make Miranda's skin crawl. She stayed.
Prescott sat alone on the main sofa, saying nothing.
He'd heard the whole story from his grandson first thing that morning, and it nearly gave him a heart attack.
He'd considered finding Clifton a different wife, he could admit that. Nearly eight months had passed, and Miranda still wasn't pregnant. He'd assumed Clifton simply wasn't interested in her.
But even if it came to that, it would be the Prescotts who made that call. A clean break, handled with dignity, with a proper settlement for Miranda.
This? This was something else entirely.
Miranda was still Clifton's lawful wife. Still a Prescott by marriage. And she'd been targeted on Martinez turf, using the cheapest, filthiest trick imaginable.
If it had worked, the Prescott name would've been dragged through the mud.
What made it worse was knowing who was behind it: Isabella. The same girl he'd thought rather well of not long ago.
Prescott exhaled slowly, a heaviness settling in his chest.
He was getting old. His judgment was slipping. He couldn't even read people properly anymore.
Lost in those thoughts, he noticed a glass of warm water being set quietly on the coffee table in front of him.
He looked up. Miranda met his gaze with calm, gentle eyes.
"Grandpa." A small, reassuring smile crossed her face. "Don't worry about me. I'm fine. And please don't let this upset your health. They're not worth it."
Something about her steady, unhurried warmth dissolved the edge of his anger. He reached for the glass, and when he spoke, his voice carried a guilt he rarely showed.
"You shouldn't have had to go through that, child."
Before anyone could respond, Clifton's phone rang.
He glanced at the screen, expression unreadable. "I need to take this upstairs," he said, and wheeled toward the elevator.
He locked the study door before answering.
"Boss." The voice on the other end was calm and precise. "That lead we've been tracking quietly, there's a new development. Our people are following it now. Whoever's behind this is careful. They're planning a handoff at the docks in three days."
Clifton's eyes went cold.
"Keep eyes on them. Don't spook anyone."
"Understood."
"And pull the full inventory list, along with the time and location of the exchange. Send it to the head of customs. Anonymous."
"Got it."
Twenty minutes later, Clifton ended the call and sat still for a moment, staring out at the manicured garden below.
The traitor buried inside Prescott had stayed quiet for a long time. But patience had its limits.
When that person was finally dragged into the light, Clifton's legs would be too.
He had been in a real accident. The injuries were real. A few minutes later to the hospital, and he would have lost the use of his legs permanently.
But he'd used that. Let people believe the damage was done, that he was confined to this chair for good. It was the only way to make whoever was hiding in the shadows feel safe enough to move.
He looked down at his legs.
Soon.
He pulled open the desk drawer. The agreement he and Miranda had signed sat inside, undisturbed.
The original plan had been simple. Once he was back on his feet, the arrangement would end. He'd free Miranda, and make sure she was set for life financially.
But now, thinking about what that actually meant. Miranda, gone. No longer part of his life in any way.
Something in his chest dropped.
He didn't like it.
Not at all.
The doorbell chimed from downstairs.
He shut the drawer, and whatever was on his face disappeared behind the cool composure he always wore in public.
Downstairs, the Prescott living room.
Prescott and Miranda sat side by side on the sofa, their expressions neutral.
Across from them stood the Martinez family. All four of them.
Arthur and his parents looked composed enough, if a little stiff with discomfort.
Isabella was a different story. Her eyes were red and swollen, and every line of her face screamed that she did not want to be there.
Arthur's father took one look at Prescott's expression and felt his stomach drop. He stepped forward immediately and gave a deep bow.
"Uncle Prescott. I heard everything about last night. I spoiled Isabella rotten, and this is the result. What she did was inexcusable and humiliating."
He turned sharply toward Isabella, who had tucked herself behind her mother, his voice dropping to a controlled, furious hiss.
"Get over here and apologize to Miranda. Now."
Isabella flinched. She shuffled forward, dragging her feet. When her eyes met Miranda's calm, unreadable face, the bitterness inside her twisted tighter.
She pressed her lips together.
"Sorry," she muttered through her teeth.
Miranda's brow barely moved, but it did.
It wasn't just the tone. It was Isabella's eyes, locked onto her the entire time, blazing with something that needed no translation.
I'm not sorry at all.
Then Clifton's voice cut through the room from the hallway.
"If that's Martinez's idea of an apology, I've seen enough."
Everyone turned. He was coming out of the elevator, unhurried, his gaze passing over each of them before settling on Arthur's father.
"That overseas partnership we discussed. I don't see a reason to move forward with it."
The color drained from the man's face instantly.
That deal was the centerpiece of Martinez's return to the domestic market. Without it, the entire foundation of the business would crack.
"Clifton, don't be hasty!" He stepped forward, cold sweat already forming. "Just listen to me for a moment!"
He whipped back around to Isabella, and this time there was nothing subtle about the threat in his voice.
"Isabella. You will apologize again. Properly. Right now."
She wanted to fight back. But one look at her father's expression stopped her cold.
She dug her nails into her palms and forced every bit of anger back down.
Then she lowered her head toward Miranda.
"Miranda. I'm sorry. What I did last night was wrong. I hope you can forgive me."
It was at least sincere this time.
The moment Isabella finished, her mother glided forward, all warmth and practiced grace, and wrapped both hands around Miranda's.
"Miranda, sweetheart. You can see she knows she was wrong. It was completely her fault, and I'm sorry on her behalf too." She gave Miranda's hand an affectionate pat. "But I know you. You're a generous, big-hearted girl. You're not going to hold a grudge against a young woman who's already apologized, are you?" Another pat, another glowing smile. "Honestly, we barely got a chance to talk last night, and now that I'm really looking at you, you are just stunning. It's no wonder Clifton chose you. Beautiful and gracious. One of these days you'll have to come visit, and we'll have Isabella take you shopping, get some coffee..."
Miranda looked at the woman in front of her.
Flawless tailoring. Not a single hair out of place. A smile that never wavered.
She looked warm. She sounded warm.
But every word had been carefully chosen to back Miranda into a corner. Call her generous, position herself as the elder, and make it clear: refuse to forgive, and you're the one being difficult.
Miranda gently pulled her hand free. She stood, looked Mrs. Martinez in the eye, and let a faint smile settle on her lips.
"I think you've misjudged me."
The room was quiet.
"I'm not nearly as gracious as you seem to think."
Her gaze drifted to Isabella for just a moment. Brief, cool, with the faintest trace of contempt.
That single glance was the last straw.
Isabella's composure shattered. The humiliation and rage she'd been swallowing since last night came roaring out, and she screamed across the room at Miranda.
"I already said sorry! What more do you want from me?!"