Chapter 86: Hurt Her, Pay the Price

Clifford's POV

I stepped out of the room and told the guard at the door, "Keep Violet safe. If anything happens, call me immediately."

"Yes, sir."

I made my way to where Peter was being held.

He was on his knees, hands tied behind his back, the cold concrete biting into him. When he saw me enter, his pupils shrank and he instinctively tried to back away. "Who are you? Why did you bring me here?"

I stopped in front of him, looking down from above. "Why did you slam the door and crush Violet's fingers?"

Peter lifted his head and let out a mocking laugh. "You should have proof before you accuse someone. Who knows? Maybe she's afraid she won't win at the competition and staged the whole thing."

Staged it?

I laughed coldly. Violet would never use her hands—her career and pride—to fake an injury.

I grabbed the ashtray from the table and smashed it toward Peter's head.

He tried to dodge, but my men held him down.

The dull thud of impact came with the sound of shattering glass.

Peter screamed and fell backward.

Blood gushed from the cut at his temple, running down his cheek and neck, painting half his face and shoulder in crimson.

He lay on the floor groaning in pain.

I raised my gaze slightly. My men understood immediately, hauling him up like a broken sack and driving a kick into the back of his knee.

Peter dropped again, this time onto the carpet of broken glass.

His body trembled violently. His voice broke into ragged whimpers. "My leg... it hurts..."

"Hurts?" My voice was ice. I stepped forward, planting my foot on his hand and grinding down hard.

The jagged glass bit into his fingertips.

Peter's scream tore through the room. "My hand! Please! I'm sorry!"

I stared at his contorted expression, my pressure unrelenting. "You know pain? Did you think about how much it hurt her when you crushed her fingers with that door?"

Peter shook, shaking like a leaf. "I was wrong! I swear I was wrong! Please forgive me!"

"I'll ask you one more time—why did you do it?"

I pressed harder, turning the grind into a slow, deliberate twist.

Glass dug deep into flesh. Blood spilled over his skin.

Peter shrieked. "I'll talk! It was Emily! She told me to find a way to injure Violet's hand without leaving marks. She was afraid Violet would win at the competition, and then I'd be forced out of the project team. So I agreed!"

"Emily..."

Just as I thought. That stupid little bitch.

I looked at the hand now mangled between glass and my shoe. "Those hands caused trouble. Deal with them."

"Understood, sir."

I stepped over the bloodstained floor toward the door.

Just as I crossed the threshold, the sound of bones breaking cracked the air, followed by Peter's scream. "My hand—"

I paused, a faint smile touching my lips. "That's what happens when you touch my woman."

In the car, I called Clinton. "Twenty minutes. Bring Emily to me."

Ten minutes later, Clinton threw Emily in front of me like discarded trash.

Her clothes were disheveled, her face streaked with drying tears.

"Who are you? Why did you take me? Let me go!"

I sat back in the chair, legs crossed, fingertips tapping the armrest. "Emily, last time you spread lies, I let it go for Violet's sake. Seems you didn't learn."

Emily shuddered. "I... I don't know what you're talking about..."

Before she could finish, Clinton came in holding a sealed bag. Inside were four bloodied fingers. "Sir, Peter's passed out. What should I do with these?"

I glanced at them. "The stray dogs in the alley haven't eaten in days."

"Yes, sir." Clinton left.

Emily saw the bag and gagged, terror flooding her like ice.

She crawled to my feet, banging her head on the floor. "Sir, please! I'll never do it again!"

"Forgive you? But you haven't done anything wrong."

"It was Bethany! She promised me that if I broke Violet's hand so she couldn't compete, she'd get her father to save my family's business. We're on the brink of bankruptcy—I had no choice..."

"I remember Violet gave you a chance to name the one pulling the strings. You kept your mouth shut. And now you talk? Too bad... I'm not as forgiving as she is."

Emily's face went pale, fear tightening its grip on her. "No! I know I was wrong! I'll do anything! Just don't kill me!"

"Kill you?" I laughed. "That would be merciful."

"If I recall, you and Julia were close friends."

Emily froze, confused at why I brought up Julia, but nodded. "Yes..."

"If you were that close, you should feel exactly what she felt before she died."

Emily's eyes went wide. "No... I don't want that..."

She lunged at me, clutching my leg like a madwoman. "I don't want it! Please, spare me!"

My brow furrowed. I kicked her hard in the chest.

She flew back, crashing to the floor.

Blood spilled from her mouth, staining the tiles.

"Don't want her pain? Fine. I'll make sure they torment you every day. You won't die quickly like she did."

I stood and walked to the door.

Clinton was waiting. I told him, "Put her in the yacht's lower deck. Don't let her die easily."

The lower deck was hell itself—I would see to it she begged for death and never got it.

"Get the car ready. I'm going to see Bethany."