Chapter 91 No Way to Escape
The car's windows were tinted so dark that not even a shadow moved behind the glass. But Cecilia would never mistake that vehicle.
It was a custom-built, bulletproof model. The license plate was Rufus's birthday.
Fear carved into the deepest part of her soul screamed to life, and pain exploded in her chest, shooting through every nerve in her body.
The car slowed.
Then it stopped.
Right beside them.
Charles sensed it too. His body went rigid, and without thinking, he stepped in front of Cecilia, shielding her with his own frame.
Her fingers clutched at his sleeve, icy and trembling uncontrollably.
This was it.
The thought tore through her mind like a blade.
She should never have come out. She should never have tangled herself with anyone again.
The rear door swung open. A long leg stepped out, polished leather shoes striking the pavement with a sharp finality.
Rufus.
His face was pale, almost sickly, the kind of pallor that came from too much blood loss. And he turned toward them.
No—he turned toward her.
His gaze slid past Charles's shoulder, locking onto Cecilia's face with surgical precision.
The noise of the street, the colors, the movement… all drained away.
Cecilia's mind went blank. Blood roared through her limbs, leaving her hands and feet numb with cold.
She could hear her own heartbeat—one pounding thud after another, each one tearing at her chest.
Run.
Run now.
That single thought crushed every shred of reason she had left.
Before Rufus could speak, before Charles could react, Cecilia spun and bolted into the alley in the opposite direction.
"Stop!" Rufus's shout tore through the air, laced with a rage that could burn the world down.
Charles flinched at her sudden movement, startled. But when his eyes caught Rufus's face—twisted with obsession and madness—he understood everything in an instant.
His body moved faster than thought. He threw his arms wide, blocking Rufus's path.
"Rufus! What the hell do you think you're doing!"
"Get out of my way!" Rufus's patience was gone. The image of a face so like Cecilia's flashed in his mind, stoking a storm of agitation that clawed at his sanity.
He had to know. He had to confirm it.
Rufus shoved at Charles.
But Charles held his ground, refusing to yield an inch.
He had seen Cecilia broken under Rufus's cruelty. He would not let it happen again—even if Amelia was only a stranger with a resemblance.
"I won't let you hurt anyone else!"
Rufus's eyes burned crimson. He saw her silhouette vanishing at the mouth of the alley, and every thread of restraint snapped.
He swung. A brutal, clean punch smashed into Charles's face.
The dull crack of impact echoed. Charles staggered, blood blooming at the corner of his mouth.
But that brief resistance was all Cecilia needed.
She didn't look back. She tore down the dim alley, turned a corner, and vanished from Rufus's sight.
Rufus ignored Charles entirely, stepping forward to give chase.
"Mr. Chapman!" Louis hurried from the car, grabbing his arm. "Your wound's reopened! The doctor said no strenuous movement!"
The fresh bandage around Rufus's wrist was soaked through, the red stark against white.
"Let go!" Rufus shook him off, his voice a snarl of pure destruction. "Find her! Tear this city apart if you have to—bring her to me!"
Cecilia crouched behind a trash bin, her body curled tight, breath ragged and uneven.
Pain stabbed through her chest, darkening her vision. Every inhale tugged at nerves like barbed wire. She fumbled for her phone, her trembling fingers missing the screen more than once.
She sent Charles a message: [Are you okay? Don't fight him—just get away.]
Guilt crashed over her like a wave.
She had dragged Charles into the storm again.
Her phone buzzed almost instantly.
It read: [I'm fine. Just a scratch. He's gone. Don't be afraid.]
Relief loosened her lungs, but before she could reply, another message appeared.
Charles: [By the way, I just remembered something important about Cecilia. I forgot to tell you before. Are you safe now? We need to meet—I have to say it face to face.]
Something important?
Her heartbeat stuttered.
What could Charles know that she didn't? Was it about her mother, Bronte? Or about the child she never had—Soren?
The thought gripped her, refusing to let go.
She texted back: [Where are you?]
Charles: [I'm at Garden Restaurant, not far from the alley. It's safe. See you in thirty minutes.]
Cecilia's reason screamed at her. This was suspicious.
They had just survived a dangerous encounter—why wasn't he sending her back to the hospital? Why meet somewhere else?
But those words—"something important about Cecilia"—broke through every wall of caution she had.
She couldn't miss even the smallest chance to uncover the truth.
Thirty minutes later, she walked into Garden Restaurant.
It was elegant and secluded, with winding paths and bamboo screens dividing private booths.
She followed the number in the text to the farthest booth—Greenfield Pavilion.
The door was ajar.
Inside, the room was empty.
Charles wasn't here?
Her unease sharpened.
She took out her phone to call him, but the line wouldn't connect.
Silence pressed in. She was still alone.
The wrongness crawled up her spine.
Cecilia turned, deciding to leave immediately.
But the moment she pivoted, she froze.
A man stood just a few steps away, watching her.
It wasn't Charles.
It was Rufus.
He was dressed in a fresh black shirt, the bandage on his wrist replaced. His face—handsome but bloodless—was unreadable.
When had he gotten here? Why was he here? Where was Charles?
Questions detonated in her mind, collapsing into one cold truth.
This was a trap.
Ice surged from the soles of her feet, locking her blood in place.
She finally understood how her foolish hope had led her straight into a dead end.
She forced herself to smother the panic clawing at her chest, to keep her voice and movements steady.
She lowered her head, treating him as nothing more than a stranger in her way, and walked quickly toward the door.
If she could just leave. If she could just get out.
Rufus's gaze never left her.
From the moment she saw him until now, she hadn't shown a flicker of fear. She simply wanted to pass.
Her face was lowered, her expression detached, as if he were nothing but an obstacle.
They brushed past each other.
And then—without warning—a tear slipped from the corner of her downcast eye.
It wasn't sadness. It wasn't fear.
It was pure, inescapable despair.
Rufus turned sharply, his hand snapping out to seize her wrist.