Chapter 242

Chapter 242

"Where's my money?"

The man's voice was deliberately low, but rage practically erupted through the phone.

"My guys and I made this trip, sleeping rough and eating scraps, and you just cut off our final payment? Is this how you do business?"

Daisy's mind slowly clicked into gear.

Right—the crew she'd hired to deal with Beatrice.

She should have realized that if Beatrice was alive and well, it meant these idiots had botched the job.

She couldn't even be bothered to ask why they'd failed.

"The target's still breathing. What makes you think you deserve payment?"

Her voice was colder than the night outside, completely devoid of emotion.

The man clearly choked on his words, apparently not expecting this reaction.

He'd probably figured this pampered rich girl would panic, get scared, and try to appease them.

"Still breathing?" The man let out a bitter laugh. "Ms. Taylor, my crew still put in work, and two of my guys are sitting in jail cells. You're really gonna dismiss us like this?"

"That's what you get for being incompetent." Daisy's tone didn't waver—if anything, it carried a hint of disdain.

"I pay for results, not sob stories."

"You—!"

The man was completely enraged by her stone-cold attitude.

"Listen here, you stuck-up bitch. Don't think hiding out in Silverwave City makes you untouchable! I'm telling you, if we don't get paid, we're capable of anything! Don't say we didn't warn you!"

Threats.

Such a familiar tactic.

Daisy suddenly found it almost amusing.

An hour ago, her mother had threatened her with family ties and financial leverage.

Now, some stranger with a death wish was threatening her with violence.

Apparently, everyone in this world preferred getting their way through intimidation.

She slowly straightened on the sofa, spine rigid.

"You don't scare me." She spoke quietly, but her voice carried undeniable authority.

"You won't see a dime. I've already reported that transfer to the bank as 'suspected fraud' and had it frozen."

Dead silence on the other end.

After a good ten seconds, the man seemed to process what she'd said and exploded. "You fucking dare to play us?"

"I'm just teaching you a lesson." Daisy's voice was terrifyingly calm. "Getting paid for completed work is natural law. Expecting payment for a botched job is begging. I don't support beggars."

"Fine, just fine!" The man laughed coldly through his rage.

"Ms. Taylor, you've got some nerve. You just wait—we're heading to Silverwave City right now to 'discuss' this with you face-to-face!"

"Coming to Silverwave City?" Daisy let out a soft laugh dripping with toxic mockery.

"Do you have any idea what the Taylor family means in Silverwave City? You, idiots, can't even figure out Riverside City, and you want to come after me in Silverwave? Are you that eager to die?"

The man's breathing grew labored—she'd obviously hit a nerve.

They had some influence in Riverside City, but in Silverwave City territory, the Taylor family was the real local power.

Daisy didn't give him time to think. She wanted to completely shatter his psychological defenses, then regain control of the situation.

"Now I'm giving you one last chance." Her voice slowed, like a snake flickering its tongue. "The only chance you'll ever have to see any money."

The man said nothing, but the strained breathing through the phone showed he was listening.

"That woman has to die."

"I don't care what methods you use—dig up every inch of ground, burn down the whole mountain if you have to. I want confirmed news of her death in the shortest time possible."

She paused, giving him time to process, then played her final card.

"When it's done, I'll pay double. I'll withdraw the fraud report on that frozen payment and transfer everything to you."

Double.

The man's breathing suddenly quickened.

They were in this line of work for the money.

The price Daisy was offering would let them live it up for the rest of their lives.

"How do I know you're good for it?" he asked hoarsely.

"You can only trust me." Daisy's tone carried the arrogance of someone who controlled everything.

"Because nobody else is going to give a bunch of losers who can't even find their target a second chance—with double payment thrown in. You can either take this one ray of hope and get the job done, or watch that money become permanently unusable."

Without giving him any room to negotiate, she hung up immediately.

The living room fell silent once again.

Daisy gripped the phone, her knuckles slightly pale from the pressure.

She looked at the blurred reflection in the mirror—no more sadness, no more anger, just ice-cold, hollow calm.

She remembered her mother's disappointed face and those words: 'Pathetic.'

Yes, crying over a man who didn't love her was pathetic.

But what if she wasn't crying for that man?

What if she was simply reclaiming what belonged to her, crushing the Beatrice who'd made her the laughingstock of their entire social circle?

What if she was proving to everyone that she'd never been a loser who could be casually discarded?

That wouldn't be pathetic at all.

She stood up and walked to the massive floor-to-ceiling window, looking down at the glittering city below.

Frederick, Beatrice.

You made me into a joke, turned my life into chaos.

So I'll destroy what you treasure most.

Since this game was already lost from the opening move, she might as well flip the entire board.

Nobody was going to walk away unscathed.

Morning in the mountains arrived wrapped in mist that clung to the leaf tips like gauze.

Frederick was helping Beatrice repair a section of fence that wind and rain had loosened.

He'd changed out of that wrinkled jacket, wearing only a deep gray old t-shirt that showed the solid lines of his arm muscles as he worked.

"Mr. Johnson, with skills like these, it'd be a waste not to start a contracting business."

Beatrice handed him a glass of water with a teasing smile.

Frederick accepted the glass, his fingers accidentally brushing hers.

He paused momentarily, then casually withdrew his hand and took a sip. "In the army, you learn to do everything yourself."

The old phone in his pocket vibrated once.

Just once.

Frederick's expression darkened slightly, but his hands kept working, securing the last branch with wire before straightening up and dusting off his hands.

"All done."

"Thank you so much." Beatrice looked at the restored fence with genuine gratitude.

"I need to go into the city this afternoon." Frederick wiped away sweat, his tone casual.

"My old leg injury needs a check-up at the hospital, and I should pick up some medication."

Beatrice immediately looked concerned. "Is it serious?"

"Old problem. I'll be back soon."

He avoided her gaze, looking toward the distant mountains. "Two days at most."

He headed back to his own courtyard, and when he emerged, he'd changed into that familiar outfit, limping again as if the agile David from moments before had been an illusion.

Beatrice walked him to the village entrance, pressing two apples into his hands. "For the road."

Frederick looked at her without speaking, just nodded, and tucked the apples into his pocket before getting into the car Liam had arranged.

The vehicle left the village and merged into the flow of traffic heading toward the city.

In the backseat, Frederick's exhaustion and dejection instantly vanished, replaced by ice-cold ruthlessness.

He removed those unflattering black-framed glasses, held them in his hand, and closed his eyes to rest.

"Where are they?"

From the driver's seat, Liam barely dared to breathe. "Abandoned factory on the city outskirts. We caught one alive—from that crew we dealt with before."

Half an hour later, at the derelict Factory No. 3 on the outskirts.

The air reeked of rust and machine oil mixed with dampness.

A man sat tied to a chair, mouth gagged, face mottled with bruises. When Frederick entered, his pupils contracted sharply, and his body began struggling violently.

Frederick didn't look at him, walking directly to where Liam handed him a damp towel.

He methodically wiped his hands.

"I'm only asking once." Frederick's voice was soft, but it hit like a sledgehammer. "Who sent you?"

The man clamped his jaw tight, making muffled sounds in his throat like he was fighting to keep control.

Frederick finished cleaning his hands and tossed the towel aside.

He drew a military knife from one of his subordinate's belts. The blade spun once around his fingertip, cold light flashing.

He didn't approach the bound man. Instead, he walked to a nearby rusted oil drum and used the knife's tip to lightly scratch the metal surface.

The ear-splitting sound of metal on metal was like fingernails on a chalkboard, making everyone's skin crawl.

Frederick worked slowly, patiently, like an artist perfecting his craft.

The tied man's forehead bulged with veins, sweat, and blood streaming down his face.

This silent, unknown torture was more devastating than direct violence.

Finally, just as Frederick's methodical scratching was about to end, the man broke. He shook his head frantically, tears and snot flowing freely.