Chapter 94 Breaking Everything He Holds Dear
The fury Cecilia had braced herself for never came.
Rufus simply stood there, listening in silence, his gaze locked on her. There was no fire in his eyes—only an unreadable depth that seemed to swallow the light around him.
After a moment of dead stillness, he stepped forward. In those fathomless eyes, something stirred—an obsessive, fevered intensity that made her stomach knot. She could not name it, but every instinct screamed that it was dangerous.
"It's alright," he said. His voice was low, unsteady from weakness, yet laced with a softness so chilling it scraped down her spine.
"You don't admit it? That's alright."
"I'll make sure you stay by my side… willingly."
Willingly.
The word hit harder than any curse. To Rufus, "willingly" meant a cage dressed as devotion—a prison built from the illusion of love, meant to hold her until she rotted.
No.
She would not fall into that trap again.
Survival surged through her veins, drowning out reason. Her body moved before her mind could catch up. She spun on her heel and launched herself toward the massive carved wooden doors at the front of the villa.
If she could get out—if she could just make it past those doors—she could leave this nightmare behind.
"Trying to run?" Rufus's voice drifted after her, a murmur tinged with the smugness of someone who had already predicted the ending.
Her fingers hadn't even brushed the door handle when a force like iron clamped around her arm from behind. The yank was brutal, dragging her off balance. Her back slammed into a chest that felt cold and unyielding.
"Let me go!" she screamed, thrashing wildly. Her fists pounded against him, but he didn't budge.
His grip shifted to her shoulders, turning her to face him with a strength that left no room for resistance.
"I told you," he said evenly, "you're not going anywhere."
A heavy thud echoed behind her—the sound of a door closing. She realized with a jolt that he had forced her into a bedroom.
She lunged for the door, twisting the handle until her knuckles whitened. The lock held firm, immovable.
"Stop! You lunatic! Let me out!" She hammered at the door until her palms burned.
Silence answered her.
Then came the sound of footsteps, receding down the hall.
He had left.
He had locked her inside.
Her strength drained in an instant, replaced by a wave of fear so sharp it hollowed her out. Slowly, she turned away from the door.
She knew this room.
It was her old bedroom.
Every detail was exactly as it had been before she died—before everything had ended. The furniture, the curtains, the faint scent in the air… all preserved like a shrine.
But she had died. She had escaped this place once.
Why?
Why bring her back?
She sank into the corner, curling her arms around her knees, burying her face against them. A broken, muffled sob clawed its way up her throat.
She could not go through that again. She could not let her wings be torn off and be buried alive in this gilded tomb.
She didn't know how much time had passed before the click of a lock broke the silence.
Her head snapped up. Every muscle tensed.
The door opened to reveal a middle-aged woman in a maid's uniform—Flora—carrying a tray of food. She stepped inside carefully, her voice gentle.
"Ms. Martinez, Mr. Chapman said you may move freely around the villa."
"But for your safety, I will be with you at all times."
Freely.
Cecilia almost laughed. A larger cage was still a cage.
Rufus's intent was plain. He meant to break her slowly, to let her simmer in captivity until she stopped fighting, until she accepted it.
Cecilia rose from the floor, brushing the dust from her clothes.
"Where is he?" she asked, her tone flat.
"Mr. Chapman has gone to the company," Flora replied with practiced politeness.
Good.
Cecilia's eyes swept the room, settling on the tall glass doors that led to the garden. Sunlight spilled across the manicured hedges outside, but it could not thaw the ice locked inside her chest.
A reckless thought took shape.
If he wanted a psychological war, then they would see who broke first.
Without another word, she stepped out of the bedroom. Flora set the tray down and followed, keeping a careful distance.
Cecilia did not head for the living room or the dining hall. She went straight to the farthest end of the second floor—the study.
Rufus's study.
It was forbidden territory. No one entered except Owen. Inside were his most important documents… and the things he valued most.
Flora's expression tightened as she realized where they were going. She hurried to catch up.
"Ms. Martinez, that is Mr. Chapman's study," she warned.
Cecilia ignored her, pushing open the heavy wooden door.
Bookshelves stretched from floor to ceiling along one wall. Several expensive paintings adorned another. A massive rosewood desk gleamed, its surface immaculate, stacked with papers and a sleek laptop.
Flora stepped in behind her, her unease plain. "Ms. Martinez, please… you should leave. Mr. Chapman will be angry."
"Angry?" Cecilia's lips curved into a cold smile.
That was exactly what she wanted.
She crossed to the desk, picking up a silver-framed photograph. Rufus stared out from it, younger, sharper, brimming with ambition.
Flora's breath caught. She half-stepped forward but froze, uncertain.
Cecilia glanced at the photo once—then let it fall.
The frame struck the marble floor with a sharp crack. Glass shattered, splintering into glittering shards. The sound cut through the still air like a blade.
Flora gasped, her face draining of color.
But Cecilia was only getting started.
She didn't even look down at the wreckage. Instead, she turned toward a display shelf lined with trophies and keepsakes.
These were the Chapman Group's honors—symbols of Rufus's pride.
Her fingers brushed over a crystal award. Then, with a flick, she sent it tumbling.
The crystal broke with a sound more delicate than glass, but no less final.
"No! Ms. Martinez!" Flora's voice cracked into a plea. "These are Mr. Chapman's most treasured possessions!"
Cecilia's hands did not slow.
One by one, she swept the shelf clean—trophies, commemorative items, limited-edition pens, rare ornaments. Each fell to the floor, breaking or denting, stripped of their former glory.
She moved with unnerving calm, no trace of rage in her motions. It was not a tantrum—it was a deliberate purge.
That composure was more frightening than any outburst.
Soon, the study was a ruin.
Cecilia stood amid the wreckage, her pale face unreadable.
"Call him," she said, turning to Flora, whose shock had frozen her in place.
"Tell him all his precious things are gone."
"Tell him to come see for himself. I'll be waiting."
Flora's hands trembled as she pulled out her phone.
Half an hour later, the screech of tires tore through the villa's quiet.
Rufus was back.
Every servant in the house stood rigid in the living room, afraid to even breathe.
Owen met him at the door, speaking in low, urgent tones.
Rufus's face was carved from shadow as he strode past, heading straight for the study.
No one dared follow.
A storm was coming.
Cecilia listened to the heavy footsteps drawing closer, her breath steadying. She straightened her back.
The door slammed open.
Rufus entered, cold air clinging to him.
His eyes swept over the destruction, then found her—standing in the center of it all.
Silence fell, thick and suffocating.
He did nothing.
No shouting. No accusations. No sudden move toward her.
He simply looked—at the woman who had destroyed everything he took pride in.
The fury in his face swelled… and then, inexplicably, began to fade.
In its place came a stillness so strange, so unreadable, that it unsettled her more than his anger ever could.