Chapter 132

Chapter 132

The basement air reeked of blood and the sharp sting of medical alcohol.

Helen was strapped tightly to an iron chair, covered in blood, her flesh torn open in places.

High-dose adrenaline kept her from passing out. Every nerve stayed brutally awake, feeling each excruciating wave of pain.

Her head hung low as she gasped for air, cold sweat mixing with blood and dripping onto the concrete floor.

Suddenly, she lifted her head toward the tall figure standing in the shadows and let out a hoarse, ugly laugh.

"Brandon..." Helen coughed up blood, her lips pulling back to reveal blood-stained teeth. "You think you've won? You think forcing us into a corner makes you smart?"

Brandon stood in the shadows, his expression ice-cold, his eyes terrifyingly dark.

Helen laughed bitterly through the pain, past the point of caring. She stared at Brandon, her eyes filled with venom and mockery. "The great Mr. Robinson who runs Imperial City like it's his kingdom—for three years, Elizabeth and I played you like a damn fool! Elizabeth would shed a few tears, complain about her legs hurting, and you'd treat her like royalty. You never knew, did you? Every time she wheeled out of your study, she'd go back to her room and dance! She took your money, bought designer bags, kept boy toys on the side, then turned around and cried poverty to you!"

"And your wife..." Helen turned her head, shooting Scarlett a venomous look. "At Long Island Estate, I spit in her bird's nest soup. Elizabeth cut up her design drafts. And you? You just blamed her for being difficult, for not being understanding enough toward your 'savior!' Brandon, you're a blind idiot! You deserved to be fooled!"

Brandon's fists clenched so hard his knuckles cracked, veins bulging on the back of his hands. The rage in his chest threatened to burn him alive, but he stood frozen, jaw locked tight. He forced himself to resist the urge to pull his gun and end Helen right there.

He'd given Scarlett control. He owed her that much.

Scarlett listened without expression. The past that had once destroyed her now sounded absurd coming from her tormentor's mouth—like a bad comedy sketch.

She didn't pick up the knife again. Helen was already half-dead. The rest, she'd leave to Imperial City's justice system—let her rot in a prison infirmary.

Clang.

Scarlett released her grip. The blood-soaked scalpel clattered onto the cold concrete floor.

That sharp sound seemed to drain every ounce of strength from her body. Scarlett stumbled back two steps and leaned against the rough wall. The satisfaction of revenge never came. Instead, an endless void of emptiness and despair swallowed her whole.

Her child wasn't coming back. The blood she'd shed in Shadow City, the endless dark nights she'd endured at Long Island Estate—all of it had been the price of a stupid lie.

Scarlett slowly slid down the wall until she was sitting on the floor. She covered her face with both hands. At first came muffled sobs, then full-blown, heart-wrenching wails.

Her cries echoed through the cold basement, bone-chillingly desolate.

Brandon's heart seized. He strode out of the shadows, stopped in front of Scarlett, and crouched down. Ignoring the blood on her white coat, he pulled her fiercely into his arms.

"Lettie, it's over... it's all over." His voice was hoarse, heavy with heartache and regret as his large hand rubbed her back soothingly.

Scarlett caught the familiar scent of cold cedar on him. Her body went rigid. The next second, as if burned, she shoved him away with all her strength.

Slap!

Scarlett raised her hand and struck him hard across the face.

The sharp sound of the slap cut through Helen's moaning.

Brandon's head snapped to the side, blood immediately seeping from the corner of his mouth.

"Don't touch me!" Scarlett screamed at him, eyes red and raw. "What gives you the right to say it's over? Brandon, you idiot! For two cheap con artists, you trampled my dignity into the dirt and sent our child to his death! You tortured me to this point, and now you want to play the devoted husband?"

Brandon didn't dodge. He slowly turned his head back to look at Scarlett's shattered face, his eyes full of pain.

Suddenly, his knees buckled. Thud. He dropped straight down onto the basement's cold concrete floor.

The powerful CEO of the Robinson Group, the untouchable capitalist, now knelt before a woman—humbled into the dust.

"You're right. I'm an idiot." Brandon grabbed Scarlett's hand and slapped it against his own face repeatedly. "Hit me. Keep hitting me. Whatever makes you feel better."

Scarlett struggled to pull her hand back, but Brandon held on tight.

"Lettie, I'm sorry. I'm begging you—don't divorce me." He looked up at her, eyes bloodshot, voice trembling. "I'll transfer all my shares in the Robinson Group, my properties in Phoenix City, my trust funds—everything—into your name. I'll leave with nothing. Just don't leave me."

Scarlett stared down at him coldly. "What do I want your money for? Can it bring my child back?"

Brandon's face went deathly pale. He released Scarlett's hand, turned, and pulled a sharp military knife from the medical kit on the floor.

He grabbed Scarlett's hand and forced the knife's handle into her grip, pressing the blade's tip directly against his heart.

"If money can't bring him back, then take my life instead." Brandon locked eyes with her, his tone resolute, without a trace of jest. "Scarlett, if you still hate me, stab me now. I won't move."

Scarlett gripped the handle. The blade had already pierced through his expensive custom shirt, pressing against his warm skin.

She looked at the man before her and found the whole thing absurd.

"You're insane." Scarlett's hand trembled, her eyes filled with disbelief. "You think dying solves everything?"

"I am insane." Brandon's eyes churned with terrifying obsession and madness. "From the moment I saw you swallow those anticoagulants, I lost it. Scarlett, I can't live without you. Not even in death."

Before she could respond, he grabbed the back of her head and yanked her toward him.

Brandon lowered his head and kissed her fiercely.

It was an aggressive, desperate kiss—tasting of blood and despair. Like a man dying of thirst in the desert drinking his last drop of water, he consumed her breath greedily, recklessly carving his presence into her bones.

Scarlett's eyes went wide as she fought against him.

"Mmph!" Her hands pressed against his chest, still gripping the sharp knife tightly.

All she had to do was apply a little pressure, and the blade would pierce his heart.

Scarlett gritted her teeth and tensed her wrist. But just as the blade was about to break through flesh, countless images suddenly flashed through her mind.

The warm milk he brought her every night.

The moment on a Phoenix City street when he threw himself at her without hesitation, pushing her out of the way and taking the hit from an out-of-control car, ending up in a pool of blood.

His first words upon waking in the ICU were asking if she was hurt.

Scarlett's fingers froze.

She hated him—hated his blind stupidity, his cruelty. But she realized with crushing sorrow that she couldn't go through with it.

Alex was right. She still cared about him. She couldn't bring herself to kill him.

Clang.

The knife fell to the floor again with a dull thud.

Scarlett stopped struggling. She closed her eyes as tears flooded down her cheeks like a broken dam.

She didn't return his kiss. She just stayed in his arms, crying—desperate and heartbroken—like a lost child.

Brandon released her lips and pulled her tightly against him.

He felt her thin body trembling violently, heard her soul-tearing sobs, and tightened his arms around her as if trying to merge her into his very bones. In that basement, only Scarlett's cries and Brandon's ragged breathing remained, tangled together in the darkness.