Chapter 152

Chapter 152

The night breeze poured through the half-open car window, carrying the chill of early autumn.

I gripped Benjamin's wrist tight, eyes fixed on the aggressive SUV in front of us.

The man in the baseball cap was leaning halfway out the window, a cigarette burning between his fingers, looking completely at ease.

"Do you know him?" I asked, keeping my voice low.

Benjamin's brow furrowed, a flicker of confusion crossing his dark eyes.

He stared at the man's face for a few seconds, then shook his head. "Never seen him."

If he didn't know him, what gave this guy the nerve to block a Wilson Group car out in the open, right here in Harbor City?

"Mr. Wilson has quite the short memory." The man in the baseball cap didn't seem bothered that Benjamin was taking his time getting out. He just blew a smoke ring and called out, "But that's fine. I'm not here for you today. Do me a favor — pass along my regards to Brent."

The moment he heard the name "Brent," the temperature around Benjamin seemed to drop to freezing.

The man flicked his ash, and the SUV's high beams flashed twice.

In the glare of the headlights, Benjamin narrowed his eyes and looked past the man in the cap, focusing on the driver's seat — on the person who had been there the whole time without showing their face.

One look was all it took. Benjamin's expression shifted completely.

His already pale face went rigid. His jaw tightened. Something dangerous and guarded surfaced in his eyes.

He shook off my hand, shoved the car door open, and stepped out.

"Benjamin!" My heart jumped into my throat. Without even thinking about the danger, I pushed open my side of the door and followed.

The overpass was nearly empty. The cold wind whipped at his suit jacket.

He was tall, but after days of being sick, there was a fragility to his silhouette he couldn't quite hide.

I hurried to his side and took hold of his arm, pressing my warm palm against the back of his cold hand — a quiet, wordless attempt to ease the tension in him.

He glanced over at me, then pulled me close, tucking me against his side.

Across from us, the man in the baseball cap made no move now that Benjamin was out of the car. He gave Benjamin a long, measured look, then glanced at me with an unreadable expression, before flicking his cigarette butt onto the ground.

"Message delivered, Mr. Wilson. Until next time."

And just like that, he hit the gas without even stepping out of the car.

The SUV let out a deafening roar. The tires left a dark streak on the pavement, and then it was gone, swallowed up by the night like a wild animal breaking into a run.

No confrontation. No violence. Just gone.

I stared at the direction the taillights had vanished, my heart still beating faster than it should.

It felt like a carefully staged prank — or a warning delivered in broad daylight.

"What's going on?" I turned to Benjamin.

His face was still dark, eyes locked on where the SUV had disappeared, his chest rising and falling slowly.

"My dad's mess," he said, his voice cold as ice, the disgust in it unmistakable. "In his early days, he did whatever it took to expand the Wilson Group's reach. Ruthless, no limits — made a lot of enemies in those circles. The person driving that car just now, I've seen a photo of him. It was in my father's study."

"Old enemies coming to settle scores?" My stomach dropped.

Benjamin pressed his lips together. He didn't deny it, but he clearly wasn't going to say more.

The look in his eyes was too deep — like the ocean, hiding things I couldn't reach.

But I wasn't naive.

If they had a problem with Brent, why had they stopped Benjamin's car instead? Because they knew his every move. And they wanted the Wilson family to know they were out there, watching, ready to strike at any moment.

Brent had made this mess. And now it was Benjamin carrying the risk.

The more I thought about it, the more it scared me. I pulled out my phone. "No, I need to call Grandma. If they're bold enough to pull something like this, the Wilson Mansion might not be safe either. We need to warn Grandpa and Grandma now."

I had barely opened my contacts when a large hand, all sharp knuckles, pressed down over my screen.

"Don't." Benjamin stopped me and took the phone from my hand.

"Why not? This is serious!" I was starting to panic.

"Grandpa's heart isn't good. Grandma isn't young anymore. Telling them won't do anything except make them worry." Benjamin looked down, his tone flat and firm. "I'll handle this myself."

When he put it that way, I couldn't keep pushing.

Brent had made too many enemies over the years. If you tried to untangle it all, it would be an endless mess with no clean answer.

"Okay. I won't call." I gave in with a sigh and wrapped my hands around his. "But when we get back, we're adding more security. Especially for you — no going anywhere alone for the next few days."

"Whatever you say." Some of the edge left his eyes. He pulled me into his arms and pressed his lips to my forehead. "It's windy out here. Let's get in the car. Let's go home."

I nodded and got back in the car with him.

"Gray, let's go," Benjamin said to the driver.

"Yes, Mr. Wilson." Gray wiped the cold sweat from his forehead and turned the key.

The Maybach let out a dull click. The engine growled for half a second — then died completely.

Gray blinked, tried again. Nothing. And then a strange sound started coming from somewhere under the chassis.

"What's wrong?" I frowned. This was Benjamin's personal car, kept in perfect condition. How could it just break down out of nowhere?

"Mr. Wilson, Mrs. Wilson — there seems to be a problem. It won't start." Gray's face had gone pale. He unclipped his seatbelt quickly. "Let me take a look."

"I'll come too." The unease in my chest was getting harder to ignore. I got out and followed him.

Benjamin came right behind us.

Gray crouched at the front of the car with a flashlight, running the beam carefully along the underside.

When the light swept across the inside of the front left wheel, Gray went completely still.

"This... this..." His voice was shaking. All the color had drained from his face.

"What is it?" I walked over quickly.

Gray's hand trembled as he aimed the flashlight at a section of the brake line under the chassis.

In the cold white light, there was a thin, clean cut on the black brake line. It hadn't been severed all the way through — someone had sliced it deliberately, leaving only a thin layer intact. The hard braking just now had sent enough hydraulic pressure through it to finish the job. Dark yellow brake fluid was slowly dripping from the split.

The brakes had been tampered with.

If that SUV hadn't forced us to stop — hadn't made Gray hit the brakes hard before we got any further — we would have been doing 120 kilometers an hour when we hit the next sharp curve. That would have been the moment the line finally gave out completely.

The outcome would have been unthinkable.