Chapter 175 The Whole Truth

Chapter 175 The Whole Truth

Genevieve huddled in her apartment, curtains yanked shut tight. The lights were off, but her phone screen glowed relentlessly as notification after notification lit up the darkness.

[Murderer.]

[Cough up the money.]

[Which hospital is your mom at? Send me the address.]

She hurled the phone into the corner of the couch, but she could still hear it buzzing.

Just then, the doorbell rang. Genevieve's whole body went rigid. She rushed to the peephole.

Two unfamiliar men stood in the hallway outside, wearing hooded sweatshirts pulled low over their faces.

She stumbled backward, pressing her spine against the wall. Her hand found the knife in the kitchen drawer.

Someone knocked twice. "Genevieve. Open up. Let's talk."

She didn't dare make a sound.

The voice continued, "You said too much at the police station. Someone's willing to help you clean up this mess. You don't open this door, those people outside will find you on their own."

Genevieve bit down hard, her voice shaking. "Go away."

Two seconds of silence. "Then good luck to you."

Footsteps retreated. Genevieve slowly slid down to the floor, knife still gripped in her hand. She stared at the debris scattered around her apartment and suddenly laughed—then just as quickly broke into sobs, gasping for air.

She finally understood. Scarlett had never planned to send her away. She only wanted her to shut up forever, like a corpse.

...

Late night, Sterling Manor.

Miles pushed open the master bedroom door, his tie halfway loosened, exhaustion written all over his face.

He'd assumed Thea would be asleep, but the bedroom light was still on. Thea sat on the edge of the bed, a baby pillow clutched in her arms, turning to look at him. "You're back."

Miles didn't respond, heading straight for the bathroom.

Thea stood and blocked his path. "I ask you one question and you just walk away? Miles, what do you think I am?"

Miles stopped. "Thea, don't start. It's late."

"Don't start?" Thea let out a bitter laugh. "I spend all day nursing, pumping, while Rosalind watches every single thing I eat, wear, whether I'm wearing makeup. She treats me like a baby-making machine. And you? What do you treat me as? Some decoration that makes you feel better about coming home?"

Miles frowned. "My mother's just anxious about the baby."

"Stop defending her." Thea stepped forward, her voice rising sharply. "You went to see Cecilia again today, didn't you?"

Something flickered in Miles's eyes. "No."

Thea pointed at the nightstand. "Then explain why there's a photo of her in your drawer. You think I haven't looked? You think I don't see that old photo of you two in your phone gallery?"

Miles's expression darkened. "You went through my things?"

"If I don't go through them, I just get to live in the dark forever." Thea was breathing hard now, angry. "You still love her!"

Miles didn't deny it. After a few seconds, he said, "I'll fulfill my duties as a husband."

Tears spilled down Thea's cheeks. "I don't want your duty. I want you."

Miles pressed his fingers to his temple. "Thea, we have a child."

Thea wiped away her tears with a cold laugh. "The baby's my bargaining chip. And the Sterling family's bargaining chip too. I don't have a name in this house—just a label. I can count on one hand how many times your mother's actually called me by my name. And you? When you say my name, am I even in your heart?"

Miles said nothing.

Thea moved closer, grabbing his sleeve. "Miles, tell me the truth. You still want to bring Cecilia back, don't you?"

Miles pulled his sleeve free, his tone hardening. "Don't bring her up. What you need right now is rest."

Thea looked like she'd been slapped. Her face went pale. "You won't even bother denying it anymore."

Miles looked at her, finally softening slightly. "I'll take care of you. The life you want—you have it all."

"What I want is you." Thea's voice was hoarse. "Not the manor, not the jewelry, not the nutritionist your mother assigned me."

"Don't cry. Tomorrow I'll have someone take you out, clear your head." Miles reached out, pressing his hand on her shoulder and guiding her back down to sit on the bed.

Thea looked up at him, her eyes full of longing. "Come with me."

Miles didn't answer. He just leaned down and briefly embraced her—a short, perfunctory gesture, like checking off a task.

Thea went rigid in his arms, her tears stopping, but her lips trembling.

Miles released her and turned toward the bathroom.

The moment the door closed, Thea stared at her exhausted reflection in the mirror and whispered, "You'll come back. You'll come back to me eventually."

The next day, Yale Counseling Center.

Felix stood at the entrance alone—no entourage, not even Roman. He looked put-together, hair neatly combed, but the exhaustion in his eyes couldn't be hidden.

Cecilia didn't bother with pleasantries. She placed her notebook on the table. "Tell me what you see in the dream."

Felix sat down, back straight. "The car's going downhill. Rain. The windshield's covered in water. I hit the brakes—nothing happens. My father turns to look at me and says, 'Stop digging.'"

Cecilia nodded. "Can you hear your own heartbeat in the dream?"

"Yes."

"Can you smell anything?"

Felix's Adam's apple bobbed. "Gasoline. And... something burning."

"Your current state isn't suited to suppressing emotions." Cecilia closed her notebook.

Felix looked up. "You're going to prescribe me something?"

"I'm not your private doctor. I'm only responsible for you in this room. And you're only responsible to me in this room."

Felix's gaze paused. "Doctor-patient relationship?"

"Exactly." Cecilia pulled out a metronome and set it on the table. "Relax your hands. Drop your shoulders. Breathe with the rhythm."

Felix complied. His breathing shifted from stiff to steady.

"You keep having the same nightmare because your brain is using the most brutal method possible to remind you—this isn't over. If you want to escape it, you need to learn how to stay conscious inside the dream."

Felix opened his eyes. "Lucid dreaming?"

"Yes." Cecilia said. "Starting tonight, do three things. First, before you sleep, write down the most consistent elements in the dream—rain, brakes, gasoline smell. Second, give yourself a fixed prompt and repeat it once you're in the dream: 'This is a dream. I can control it.'"

"Third, the moment you notice rain in the dream, use a physical anchor—touch your wrist or look at the back of your hand."

"Will it work?"

"It will." Cecilia's tone was direct. "You're not fragile. You're just being dragged down by the past. You need to learn to treat the dream like your own territory."

Felix was silent for a few seconds, his voice dropping lower. "Will you keep being my therapist?"

"As long as you follow the rules." Cecilia looked up. "No crossing boundaries. No forcing anything. No trying to 'protect' me your way."

Felix nodded. "Okay."

His breathing slowed. His eyelids grew heavier. Ten minutes later, he was leaning back on the couch, asleep. His brow was still furrowed, but his hands had relaxed.

Once she confirmed he was asleep, she draped her coat over her arm and left the therapy room.

At the end of the hallway, someone was waiting—one of Knightley's people, wearing earbuds and casual clothes. His gaze landed on her briefly before shifting away, keeping watch.

Cecilia headed straight downstairs and got into her car.

Twenty minutes later, she arrived at the back entrance of an unremarkable club in Brooklyn.

She didn't bring bodyguards inside, only left them stationed outside.

She walked into an underground private room. The moment the door closed, her phone screen lit up—an evidence-collection program automatically syncing to Laurent's legal team.

Genevieve sat slumped on the couch, looking drained of blood. Her eyes were red and swollen, a plane ticket crumpled in her hand.

"What are you doing here?" Her voice was so hoarse it barely sounded like her. "I already told them everything."

Cecilia placed a printed public opinion monitoring report in front of her. "Your situation right now is worse than prison. If you don't tell me who gave you orders from behind the scenes, you won't survive long."

Genevieve trembled. "I already said—it was Scarlett."

"I need details." Cecilia pulled out a chair and sat down. "Who gave you the poison? How did you make contact? What was the timeline? How did you make sure only Lyrial ate it? Spell it out."