Chapter 178 Going Abroad

Chapter 178 Going Abroad

Scarlett suddenly understood. This old man could save her, but he could just as easily discard her—whenever it suited his interests.

She lowered her eyes, her tone flat. "I understand."

Back in her room, she locked the door, pulled out a second phone, and dialed an international number.

It took a long time for someone to pick up.

The man's voice was low, tinged with a foreign accent. "Scarlett?"

Scarlett walked to the window, gazing out at the estate shrouded in darkness, her eyes gleaming with ruthless intent. "I need your help."

"Price."

"You've always wanted a foothold in New York, haven't you?" she said softly. "I can make that happen."

A laugh came from the other end. "Sounds like you're really desperate."

Scarlett stared at her reflection in the glass. "I want Cecilia to lose. And I want Felix on his knees."

At nine p.m., on a side street in Queens, a van stopped for less than ten seconds. The door slid open, then slammed shut.

Genevieve was dumped on the side of the road, covered in blood, her wrists marked with ligature burns. The van sped off, its taillights flashing once before disappearing.

She lay sprawled on the pavement, broken gasps escaping her throat. She wanted to scream—couldn't. She wanted to crawl—her palms scraped raw against the asphalt, leaving streaks of blood.

After what felt like an eternity, her trembling hand reached toward her mouth. The next second, her entire body convulsed with horror.

Her tongue had been severed at the root. All she could manage were garbled, incoherent whimpers. She would never speak again.

-

Early morning, the study at the Laurent Estate.

Zoe slammed the photos the police had just sent onto the desk. "Found her. She's alive, but she's ruined."

Cecilia looked at the images. In them, Genevieve lay in a hospital bed, her neck wrapped in bandages, her eyes wide open—filled only with terror.

Zoe cursed. "That bastard Elliot's methods are filthy as hell. Torture her first, force her to record a video, then destroy her ability to talk. Now even if she's alive, she can't say a word."

Cecilia pressed her fingers to her temple. "Can she still write?"

"The doctor said she needs time to recover. Her mental state's a wreck right now. Police have her under twenty-four-hour watch."

"Campbell won't stop." Cecilia set the photo down. "If he can do this to Genevieve, he can do it to other witnesses. We need to shift our strategy—can't rely solely on witness testimony anymore."

Zoe nodded. "I've already had legal comb through the money trail and the drug supply chain again."

Cecilia stood and walked to the window. "That video reversal was too coordinated. Someone's pulling strings behind the scenes. Dig into Rosalind and Mary Lames. They wouldn't band together for no reason."

"My thoughts exactly." Zoe glanced at her. "Also, Campbell's factory orders have stabilized."

Cecilia turned. "That fast?"

"Yeah. But our people are still investigating."

At the same time, Felix was networking at a downtown gala.

The venue lights were blinding, the champagne tower glittering with fractured reflections. He'd just signed a document when the screech of brakes suddenly echoed in his ears.

Without warning, the scene before him shifted—he was pulled into a hallucination.

Rain pattered against the windshield. His father, seated in the front, turned back, lips moving.

Felix read the words from his mouth: Stop digging.

His breath hitched. The glass in his hand dropped to the floor.

Roman's face went pale. "Boss?"

Felix didn't respond. He turned and strode toward the exit, his steps quick—as if trying to outrun something.

He got into the car. The driver asked for a destination. All he said was, "Back to the estate."

Two blocks out, a red light. Oncoming headlights flooded his vision, and suddenly he was back in that rainy night—the severed brake line, the car tumbling down the slope, the smell of scorched metal, the blood.

"Boss!" The driver yanked the wheel.



The front of the car scraped against the guardrail. The airbag deployed. The impact wasn't severe—no casualties—but the inside of the car was chaos.

When Roman rushed over from the trailing vehicle, Felix was slumped against the seat, a cut on his temple, his face drained of all color—but his forehead was burning hot.

"Get him to a hospital!" Roman barked, then heard Felix murmur something.

He leaned in. Felix had his phone open, the top contact on the screen: Cecilia.

Roman understood immediately and made the call.

The line connected quickly. Her voice was calm. "Felix?"

His throat tightened, his voice rough and hoarse. "I got in a car accident."

Twenty minutes later, the emergency floor of the hospital.

When Cecilia pushed open the door to the room, Roman was standing outside, visibly agitated. "Ms. Cecilia, the boss has a fever. The doctor said the impact wasn't serious, but he's been barely conscious."

Cecilia didn't waste words. She went straight in.

Felix lay in the hospital bed, his suit jacket removed, a bandage on his temple, his brow furrowed tight. His breathing was labored, and an IV drip was attached to the back of his hand.

Cecilia wrung out a cool towel and pressed it to his forehead, her movements steady.

Felix seemed trapped in a dream, his breathing uneven, muttering fragmented words.

"The brakes…"

"Dad…"

"Don't go…"

Cecilia replaced the towel with a fresh one, her fingers pressing gently against his wrist, which had tensed from the nightmare. "Felix, listen to me."

"This is a hospital. There's no rain, no car, no cliff. You're safe right now."

His breathing faltered for a few seconds, then gradually slowed.

Late into the night, a nurse came in to check his temperature, then quietly left.

Roman stood by the door, asking softly, "Should you head back and rest? I can stay with him."

Cecilia didn't look up. "Out."

Roman immediately shut his mouth and closed the door behind him.

Cecilia stayed all night, repeatedly changing the cool towels, adjusting the IV drip, monitoring his temperature and breathing.

By the time dawn was breaking, Felix's fever had finally subsided. He opened his eyes, and the first thing he saw was Cecilia sitting beside the bed.

She was still wearing the same coat from the night before, a medical chart in her hand, faint exhaustion visible beneath her eyes.

Felix looked at her for a long time, his voice hoarse. "You stayed all night?"

"Yes."

A faint smile tugged at the corner of his lips. "You still care about me."

Cecilia set down the chart, her tone even. "A patient in a car accident, running a high fever at night, suffering from traumatic nightmares. I'd do the same for anyone else."

Felix studied her. "Just doctor and patient?"

"Yes." Cecilia handed him a glass of water. "That's the boundary you agreed to."

He took the glass, a flicker of disappointment—and resignation—in his eyes. "You really don't give me an inch, do you?"

"You hit a guardrail last night, not your head." Cecilia stood, picking up her bag. "No work for the next few days. No drinking, no driving. Keep writing in your journal. Take your medication on time."

"Will you come back tonight?"

Cecilia slung her bag over her shoulder. "Depends on whether you manage to land yourself back in the hospital."

At the same time, Campbell's car pulled into the estate.

Scarlett stepped out, her face no longer showing the pitiful expression she'd worn outside the police station. She passed through the living room, where Elliot was speaking with his lawyer. He didn't even glance up at her.

Scarlett's gaze turned colder. She went straight to her room, and as soon as the door closed, she pulled a passport and an old document from the safe, tucking them into the bottom of her suitcase.

Her assistant knocked on the door. "Miss, what are you…?"

Scarlett zipped up the suitcase, her voice light. "Book a flight."

"Where to?"

She turned, a faint smile on her lips. "Abroad. To find someone who can make Cecilia beg on her knees."