Chapter 295

Chapter 295
Oliver gaped, desperately trying to make a sound—any sound. But nothing came out. His eyes bulged with terror as he stared at Catherine, who stood calmly beside his hospital bed.

He tried to raise his hand, intending to strike her or call for help, but discovered his arm wouldn't respond.

His muscles had turned to mush, his entire body limp as a rag doll.

What had she done to him?

Catherine smiled, observing the once-dominant man now helpless before her. Seeing him so docile, completely at her mercy, gave her a deep sense of satisfaction.

"Dear Oliver," she purred, her voice honey-sweet. "Why so quiet? Cat got your tongue?"

She reached out, her fingers gently caressing his face. Her touch lingered on the scar that cut across his forehead, her eyes momentarily softening with nostalgia.

"I still remember how you got this scar," she murmured. "We were so young then, barely seventeen or eighteen."

Catherine's gaze grew distant, lost in memories.

"I hated studying, had absolutely no interest in school. All I wanted was to be with you, sneaking around. Remember that day my father almost caught us? When he suddenly burst in, you climbed out my bedroom window to hide."

"He suspected someone had been there and threw a rock out the window. I thought you'd already run away, that the rock would miss you," her voice faltered.

"But you... you fool... you hadn't run. You just stood there and took the hit. Your face was a bloody mess."

Catherine's fingers traced the raised ridge of his scar.

"After my father left, you climbed back through my window, grinning like an idiot. I was crying, devastated about your face, and there you were comforting me as if nothing had happened."

Her eyes sparkled with unshed tears. She paused, lost in the memory.

"If only time could have stopped right then," she whispered. "That foolish boy who loved me so much he'd risk disfigurement, who'd scale the Harding estate walls just to see me."

Her expression darkened suddenly. "What a shame it all eventually turned into mutual disgust."

As Catherine spoke, something flickered in Oliver's eyes—recognition, perhaps. For a moment, he saw again the vibrant, beautiful girl she had once been, not the vengeful woman before him now.

He tried desperately to speak, to explain himself, but his relaxed muscles betrayed him.

When he managed to open his mouth, saliva dribbled down his chin.

Catherine sat on the edge of his bed, smiling tenderly as she watched him struggle.

Then, without warning, her expression transformed into pure hatred.

"If it weren't for those thirty slaps you gave me, I might still believe you loved me!" she hissed. "When you humiliated me in front of Richard—thirty slaps across my face—I promised myself I'd get revenge. I'd make you suffer worse than death!"

Her voice rose with each word.

"Oliver, you worthless piece of shit! You betrayed ME!"

Suddenly, a gleaming surgical scalpel appeared in her hand. With a swift motion, she yanked away his blanket and sliced open his hospital gown. The blade traveled down his abdomen, finally stopping between his legs.

"You always loved playing with women, didn't you?" Her smile was terrifying now. "After today, you won't be playing with anyone ever again."

The scalpel flashed downward.

Oliver's face contorted in agony, a strangled sound finally escaping his throat.

"You..."

He could barely form the word.

Catherine lifted the bloody mass, carefully placing it in a glass jar she'd brought. Her laughter echoed around the room, unhinged and triumphant.

"I won't let you die," she promised, screwing the lid tight. "Death would be too merciful for you."

With her "trophy" secured, she practically skipped out of the room, her steps light and joyful.

By the time Oliver's security team discovered what had happened, he had already passed out from the pain.

Mia immediately called for doctors, who rushed Oliver into emergency surgery.

She contacted the police, then ordered Oliver's security team to lock down all information about the incident while searching frantically for Catherine.

At Manhattan General Hospital, news of William's death spread rapidly.

Henry had reported it to the police and was personally overseeing the investigation from the security monitoring room, reviewing footage from before his grandfather's death.

The recordings showed a person in a white doctor's coat entering the hospital, cleverly distracting the guards at William's door, then entering the room carrying what appeared to be a medication case.

There were no cameras inside the patient rooms, so they only had footage of the person—wearing a mask and cap—entering William's room. They remained inside for ten minutes before leaving empty-handed.

After medical examination and Violet's analysis, the substance found in William's system matched the medication the killer had brought.

After a thorough investigation, the police reached their conclusion: Sophia was the prime suspect.

Though no one wanted to believe it, the evidence seemed irrefutable. Henry sat alone in the monitoring room, a cigarette clenched between his lips, his eyes dark and hollow as he stared at the footage.

How could Sophia have done this? His grandfather had adored her, and she had loved him just as deeply.

"It's impossible. It has to be impossible."

Yet the woman in the security footage was undeniably Sophia. There was no mistaking her.

He'd been staring at the screen for hours, the unlit cigarette still between his lips.

Finally, he flicked his lighter and inhaled deeply. Soon the entire room filled with smoke, creating a hazy cloud around him.

When Alexander pushed open the door, he was met with this grim scene.

Henry sat slumped in a leather chair, dark circles under his eyes, grief etched into every line of his face. Unshaven and disheveled, he looked nothing like his usually impeccable self.

When Alexander heard about William's death, he had dropped everything.

Just days ago he'd been visiting the old man, and William had been in good spirits—the doctors had even said he might have six more months.

Yet in just a few days, everything had changed.

Alexander didn't smoke and couldn't stand the smell. He immediately opened the windows and doors. Only when the room was somewhat breathable did he take a seat beside Henry, placing a supportive hand on his shoulder.

"I'm sorry for your loss," he said simply.

Alexander wasn't good at offering comfort, but he understood Henry better than most. They were similar in many ways—both hated empty platitudes.

Some grief could only be endured alone.

Henry didn't respond to his friend's gesture. He merely exhaled another long stream of smoke, his gaze never leaving the security footage.

Then, he asked: "Do you think she did it too?"