Chapter 93 Four Years Ago, You Took Scarlett's Son
A twisted smile curved Brielle's lips, making her look like something out of a horror movie. "I just want to watch Scarlett suffer."
Then she laughed—a wild, unhinged sound that could've landed her in a psych ward.
She was determined to use Wesley as her weapon to make Scarlett's life a living hell.
In this whole twisted game, Wesley had been played from start to finish. Not just by Ambrose, but Brielle had manipulated him too.
Wesley's hands clenched into fists at his sides. If murder were legal, Brielle would already be six feet under. He bit out his words through gritted teeth.
"Stay the hell away from me."
With that, he turned and walked away.
Brielle, riding high from taking out her Scarlett-induced frustrations on Wesley, chased after him with a vengeance.
"You know, if you just keep pestering her, she'll never have a moment's peace."
Wesley stopped dead in his tracks. His expression turned vicious as he spun around, hand shooting out to wrap around her throat, shoving her against the nearest wall.
"You really think I won't kill you?"
Brielle's back slammed against the wall. The air was instantly crushed from her lungs. Her carefully lined eyes went wide with terror as her hands flew up to claw at his.
"I'm not some pawn you can use. Try manipulating me again, and I'll make sure you can't show your face in Silverlight City."
Wesley had spent years riding high on his own ego, basking in the attention and devotion of a real heiress like Scarlett. He sure as hell wasn't about to be used by some fake heiress like Brielle.
Her manipulation made him feel like he was right back where he started—with nothing. The feeling made him sick. Made him panic. Panicked enough to do something stupid.
Suddenly, footsteps echoed down the hallway. Someone was coming.
Wesley reined in his emotions and released her throat, only issuing a low warning.
"Don't come at me again."
Brielle sucked in fresh air, then quickly dissolved into that unhinged laughter again. But her eyes—they were like a viper's, gleaming with dark intent. After the person passed, she wasn't done. Death wish and all, she fired back with a threat of her own.
"Ambrose is investigating that million dollars from four years ago. What do you think happens if I tell him about it?"
Wesley's pupils contracted sharply. But only for a few seconds. Then his expression smoothed over.
"Go ahead. Tell him. While you're at it, make sure to mention that four years ago, you're the one who took Scarlett's son."
He dropped his voice lower, twisting the knife. "Where'd you take that kid, anyway?"
Brielle's face went white. She glared daggers at Wesley.
Wesley stared back with pure malice. "I don't actually want to know. But if you're hell-bent on a death wish, Ambrose has plenty of ways to make you spill where that bastard is."
With that, he strode off toward the bidding hall.
Brielle stayed pressed against the wall, staring at the opposite side, her hands clenched, her eyes dark.
When Scarlett returned to the conference hall, Ambrose was already seated, his face an expressionless mask. He radiated such an intense "don't even think about it" energy that no one dared sit near him.
She walked over and took the chair beside him. The second she sat down, he turned to her, his voice ice-cold.
"Ulysses comes to harass you and you're having a nice little chat with him? Haven't you learned your lesson yet?"
Scarlett met his gaze and caught the sharp edge of anger in his eyes. So he was bothered. She had to explain.
"I didn't want to cause a scene during the bidding. Otherwise, I would've decked him."
The hostility in his narrow eyes instantly evaporated, replaced by an amused glint. "Would you really hit him?"
Scarlett caught the shift in his mood and responded matter-of-factly.
"Of course. I hit him, you clean up the mess."
The comment positioned Ambrose as her backup—and it secretly pleased him. He raised an eyebrow. "What am I to you that I should clean up your messes?"
Scarlett caught his smug expression and shot back playfully, "Returning a favor. Ring a bell?"
Ambrose understood immediately. She was talking about Owen helping Quentin.
A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. So she was still hung up on that.
Just then, the bidding conference began. The host's voice rang out from the main stage, and their conversation died.
"Ladies and gentlemen, this bid is different from previous ones. It's not just about price—design matters even more."
After the host's explanation, everyone was reminded to submit their bid proposals and design portfolios.
Ambrose's secretary, Ryder, went to turn in their documents. Ambrose and Scarlett stayed seated.
Once all the bids were submitted, several people emerged from backstage—all faces frequently seen on the news.
One of them Scarlett recognized: Orion, the man Owen had asked her to find.
She studied Orion, her expression carefully neutral.
As the host introduced them, their identities became clear. These four were present to ensure the bidding process was open, transparent, and fair.
In other words, this was a live bid opening with real-time design selection.
Unheard of. But maybe a new beginning.
In the past, government bids were usually predetermined—the whole process just a formality. But this time, they were shaking things up. Whether that was good or bad remained to be seen.
It also meant no breaks. Everyone in attendance would sit through the entire process alongside the four officials as they reviewed bids and selected designs.
Of course, all the bidding companies were major players, and there were quite a few of them. The workload was massive. Two officials reviewed the bids, and two evaluated the designs.
"Mr. Boleyn, with all these changes to the bidding format, is there something shifting in the political landscape?" Ryder leaned close to Ambrose's ear and whispered.
Ambrose's expression remained cold. "I'm not sure what's behind it yet, but it's clear Orion's power is being diluted."
Ryder pressed, "Should we take this opportunity to bring up meeting with him?"
Ambrose shut it down immediately. "This is the most sensitive time. Don't make any moves. Let's just watch and wait."
Seated beside them, Scarlett overheard their conversation. Why was Ambrose looking for Orion?
Curiosity tugged at her, but she pretended not to hear. Some things were better left unknown.
After two hours of evaluation, the results were finally in. When the host prepared to announce them, the room fell dead silent.
Scarlett's nerves were shot. Her hands clasped tightly together, her eyes locked on the main stage.
Ambrose noticed. His dark gaze landed on her profile—the tension visible in the sharp line of her jaw. He reached for a bottle of water on the table, twisted it open, and held it out to her.
"Have some water."
Scarlett didn't even turn her head, eyes still glued forward. "I'm not thirsty."
Ambrose tried again. "Drink a little. It'll help calm your nerves."
Only then did Scarlett understand what he was really offering. She glanced at him briefly, took the bottle—already opened—and brought it to her lips, taking a couple of small sips.
The ice-cold water doused the flames of her anxiety. Her heart gradually steadied. She reached for the cap in his hand to close the bottle, but he snatched it away, screwing it on himself as he spoke.
"Even if you don't trust the company's bid, you should trust your own abilities."
His tone was casual, but the trust and reassurance in his words ran deep.
For years, she'd struggled through constant doubt and criticism. And now, someone believed in her skills one hundred percent. It was a strange feeling.
Like falling into an abyss and suddenly seeing a rope descending from the heavens, ready to pull her back up.
Just as Scarlett's thoughts drifted into the stratosphere, the host announced the winning company.