Chapter 144

Chapter 144
Alina's POV

After those two slaps, Adams never mentioned again what had happened that day in the visiting room.

But he was cunning and vicious. Even without my saying a word, he would twist everything I had ever said.

Early the next morning, when the news alert popped up, I was sitting at the dining table, holding a cup of coffee that had already gone cold. The headline on the screen stabbed at my eyes: "Alina Charliecross Speaks Out: Lowell Vadalishi Was Once Kind to Me—Which Is Precisely the Classic Sign of Psychological Manipulation."

In the body of the article, Adams's PR team had spun my words—"he was good to me"—into "a manifestation of Stockholm syndrome following prolonged manipulation." They had brushed aside the fact that "he once took a bullet for me," reducing it to "the atonement theater favored by every abuser." Read from beginning to end, every single word I had spoken that day in the visiting room had been wrung inside out, turned into nails driven straight into Lowell.

I set my phone down and didn't scroll into the comments, but the words were already branded into my mind, impossible to erase.

Over the following days, public opinion snowballed, growing larger and larger. Adams didn't stop. He released fresh material, this time about the internal purges within the Lowell family. Old, bloody histories that had long been buried were dug back up, embellished, and rewritten into a drama of "brother turning against brother." Though the names Antonio and Marco were never stated outright, the hints between the lines were enough for anyone following the case to guess most of the truth.

Within three days, the stock prices of several companies under Lowell's name dropped nearly twenty percent. Partners on the West District project began to hesitate. Even Megan's boxing gym was caught in the fallout—people started showing up outside with banners calling her "the criminal's accomplice." Those who had once stood by Lowell fell into three camps: some went silent, some turned on him, and some publicly drew a line between themselves and him.

And I was locked away in this manor, where all I could see each day was that meticulously trimmed garden outside my window and the endless stream of news on my screen, each story worse than the last.

I tried to fight back. That night, when Adams came to the study to discuss the next phase of strategy, I sat across from him, my fists clenched, and asked, "Just how far do you intend to take this before you stop?"

Adams leaned back in his chair, the cigar rolling slowly between his fingers. His gaze settled on my face, cruel and cold. "Until he can never get back up again."

"He's already lost so much. You still want to—"

"Alina," he cut in. "Feeling sorry for him?"

I fell silent. Then he stood, crossed over to me, and pressed the lit cigar against my collarbone. The stench of scorched flesh spread instantly through the air. "Your position is the plaintiff. You don't get to pity the defendant."

After that, I never argued with him again.

I began to grow quiet. During the day I stayed in my room; at night I went to a bar and drank, soaking myself in the burn of whiskey, letting the alcohol dull the sharp edges of everything I felt.

There was an unremarkable little bar near the manor, tucked away at the end of a narrow alley. The storefront was small, the lighting dim and yellow, the patrons few—mostly people who came alone to sit for a while after work.

I became a regular there. Every evening I would go, take the seat in the farthest corner of the bar, order a whiskey, and drink it slowly until I was tipsy enough to leave.

Adams knew I went to the bar. He didn't stop me—probably figuring I'd sunk too low to stir up any trouble. He simply kept his people watching nearby, as usual, to make sure I didn't stray too far.

That day it was drizzling. The lights in the bar were dimmer than usual, and the air was thick with the smell of damp earth mingled with alcohol.

I ordered my second whiskey, lifted it, and took a sip. The cold liquid slid down my throat and burned into a knot of fire in my stomach.

I stared blankly at the empty glass in my hand, my mind filled with nothing but those headlines and photographs from the news. The shot of Lowell's silent profile at the press conference. The trending topic about his companies' plummeting stock. The chorus of insults hurled at him online.

Just then, I felt someone sit down in the seat beside me.

I assumed it was some stranger stopping in for a drink—until the person spoke. The voice was low and familiar, like a needle slipping gently into my muddled thoughts, pulling me a little more awake.

"Drinking your troubles away alone isn't good for you."

My head snapped up. Lowell was sitting right beside me, less than an arm's length away. He wore a dark gray coat with the collar turned up to cover half his face, the brim of his hat pulled low—but those eyes I could never mistake.

I froze entirely, as though nailed to my chair, the glass nearly slipping from my hand.

"Are you insane?" My voice dropped low, laced with shock and an anxiety I couldn't suppress, my eyes darting toward the bar's entrance. "There are people out there watching me everywhere. Do you have any idea what happens if they find you—"

"I know." Lowell's voice was calm. He ordered a soda water, lifted it, and took a sip. "That's why I didn't come in through the front."

Caught off guard, I looked at him for a moment. My lips parted—I wanted to say leave—but the words caught in my throat and refused to come out.

Lowell set his glass back on the counter and turned his head to look at me, his eyes clouded with complicated emotion. "You've gotten thinner."

Something wrenched hard at my heart. I turned my face away from his gaze, my fingers tightening instinctively around the glass.

"Go away," I said, my voice a little hoarse. "I don't want to see you."

"I know. But I have something to show you, and something to say. Look at it first, then decide. All right?"

I was silent for a while, then said, "I don't want to see anything."

"It's about your parents." The moment those words left his mouth, my breath stopped. "The person who truly caused your parents' deaths back then—it wasn't my father."

I turned to look at him. There wasn't a trace of evasion on his face.

"You're lying," I said, frowning.

"I'm not lying." Lowell drew an envelope from an inner pocket of his coat, laid it on the counter, and slid it toward me. "The company mentioned on that videotape Adams showed you—its controlling shareholder really is listed under the name Sumia Vadalishi. But the one who actually ran that company, from start to finish, was Antonio. My father was pushed into that position by him. He died before he ever got the chance to sever that connection completely."

The edges of several sheets of paper peeked out from the envelope, marked with handwriting and signatures. I didn't reach for them, but my eyes fell on those papers and wouldn't move away.

"I can't look at this here. Adams's people are right outside. They could come in at any moment—"

"Then come with me." Lowell cut me off. He tucked the envelope back into his pocket, stood, and held out his hand toward me. "I'll take you to see him. Antonio is in my hands now. He'll tell you himself what happened back then."

I stayed in my seat, unmoving. The sound of my own heartbeat pounded in my ears, almost drowning out the low background music of the bar.

There were people outside—Adams's people—watching from the shadows. Every moment, someone had eyes on me. If I left with Lowell, Adams would know soon enough, and I had no idea what he would do to Lowell then.

"I can't go with you." I gripped the rim of the glass. "You can still get out now. Just leave me alone."

"Alina." Lowell spoke my name softly. "If you stay here, all you'll ever be is something he keeps using. Don't you want to see the truth with your own eyes?"

I looked at his hand. The string inside me, drawn taut for far too long, trembled violently.

After a few seconds of silence, I stood, laid a few bills on the counter, then turned and followed Lowell toward the bar's back door.

The instant the cold wind rushed in through the crack of the door, he reached out and grasped my wrist. His pace was quick, leading me through one narrow alley and around into another, darker one. There, a dark-colored car was parked, its engine still running. White exhaust drifted faintly up from the tailpipe through the veil of rain, melting into the night.