Chapter 64 Chapter 64
At that moment, General Zachariah's entire posture shifted.
The pleading man who had knelt before Megan moments earlier was gone.
What replaced him was something harder, sharper, and far more dangerous.
He stood there looking at Megan's departing figure, and the weight of her words settled into him like stones piling onto his chest.
He understood, he understood exactly what she had meant.
There was no ambiguity in it.
No room for misinterpretation.
She had laid it out plainly: how he chose to act from this moment forward would determine not just whether she forgave him, but whether she judged him as someone worth her consideration at all.
And General Zachariah knew—he knew with absolute certainty that if he failed to do what was necessary, if he hesitated, if he allowed sentiment or family loyalty or social pressure to cloud his judgment, then he would lose far more than just her forgiveness.
He would lose his credibility, his standing.
Perhaps even his life, in a less literal but no less real sense.
Because Megan had saved him.
Not figuratively.
Not as a polite exaggeration people used when someone did them a favor.
She had literally saved his life.
He had been at the edge of death so close that the doctors had stopped offering hope and had started speaking in careful, sympathetic tones about “making arrangements” and “preparing loved ones.” His body had been failing him in ways that defied conventional treatment. Every remedy had either done nothing or made things worse.
And then Mr. Oliver had come to him.
With something different.
With herbs. With medicine. With a treatment sourced from someone whose knowledge ran deeper than what could be found in any hospital or clinic.
From Megan.
He had taken it, not because he believed it would work, but because he had run out of options.
And it had worked.
Within days, he had felt the change.
Within weeks, he had begun to recover.
Within months, he was standing again whole, functional, alive.
He owed her everything.
And this this moment right here—was supposed to have been the first time he met her in person. The first time he could stand before her and express, face to face, the depth of his gratitude. The first time he could offer her something worthy of what she had given him.
Instead, his own family had turned that moment into a disaster.
His own niece, his own blood.
Had disgraced her. Had torn her clothing. Had drawn her blood. Had humiliated her publicly.
And worse they had done it in his name.
They had used his authority, his reputation, his power as a weapon against the very person he owed his life to.
The thought alone made his hands shake with barely restrained fury.
He would not allow this to stand.
He would not allow them to destroy everything because of their ignorance and arrogance.
So when Megan finished speaking and turned to leave, General Zachariah straightened fully, his jaw tight, and said in a voice that carried no room for doubt:
“I understand perfectly what you mean. And I will not disappoint you.”
Megan did not look back.
She simply continued walking.
Liam stayed close beside her, his expression carefully neutral but his posture protective.
Mr. Oliver moved with them, his presence calm and measured, but his eyes sharp as he scanned the crowd to ensure no one was foolish enough to raise a phone.
And they left.
However before anyone in the crowd could fully process what had just happened, before phones could be pulled out, before videos could be taken or pictures snapped, the three of them were already gone—disappearing back through the entrance and out of sight.
Not a single image had been captured.
Not a single recording made.
It was as though Megan had been a ghost in that space present for the storm, but vanishing before the aftermath could immortalize her face.
The silence they left behind was suffocating.
Vincent stood frozen, his hand still pressed to his jaw where the slap had landed, his mind racing but unable to land on a single coherent thought.
How is this even possible? That was the only question looping endlessly through his head.
How could this be happening? How could Megan the woman he had discarded, the woman he had humiliated, the woman his entire family had dismissed as worthless—be someone that men like Mr. Oliver and General Zachariah treated with this kind of deference?
It made no sense.
It violated everything he thought he understood about the world.
Deborah stood beside him, equally paralyzed.
Her mouth hung slightly open, her eyes wide and unfocused, as though she were watching her entire understanding of reality crumble in real time.
She could not speak, Could not move.
Could barely breathe.
This was not supposed to happen.
This was supposed to be their moment.
Their vindication, their proof that they had been right all along to cast Megan aside.
Instead, it had become the beginning of something far worse.
And Jessica—Jessica, who had been so loud, so confident, so certain of her family's superiority—now stood in stunned silence, her arms wrapped around herself as though trying to hold her composure together by force.
None of them said a word, They simply stood there, unable to process what had just unfolded in front of them.
But General Zachariah was not finished.
Not even close, he turned slowly, his eyes landing first on Tasha, who was still lying on the ground, barely conscious, blood staining her lips.
His expression did not soften.
If anything, it hardened further.
He stepped toward her, and when he spoke, his voice was low and cold so cold that it sent a chill through everyone who heard it.
“If you do not want me to strangle you with my bare hands,” he said, “then within the next three hours, I need you to file for divorce.”
Tasha's eyes flickered weakly toward him, confusion and fear mingling in her expression.
“Divorce this good-for-nothing, foolish bastard,” General Zachariah continued, gesturing sharply toward Vincent.
“Get him out of this family. Immediately. Because if you do not, he is going to bring calamity down on all of us.”
His voice rose slightly, shaking with barely controlled rage.
“He is going to bring disease. Destruction. Ruin. And I will not allow it.”
He straightened, his decision already made.
“I will speak to your father myself. This marriage will cease to exist. You need to disassociate yourself from this cursed family before it drags you and all of us—down with it.”
The words landed like a sentencing.
Vincent's face went pale.
“What?” he whispered, barely audible.
He could not understand.
Could not comprehend why General Zachariah was now advising—no, demanding—that Tasha divorce him.
What the hell is going on?
His confusion was mirrored on his father's face.