Chapter 7
Michael's face turned dark and grim.
He looked at my cold expression, then at Freya, looking pitiful in his arms. In the end, he said nothing, just held her and walked back upstairs.
I knew that from the moment I decided to stop playing along with their act, this war had truly begun.
Soon, there was no more noise from upstairs. Michael didn't come back down.
I turned off the TV, and the living room fell into dead silence.
Winter had probably gone to take care of her beloved Freya. The air was filled only with the sickeningly sweet fragrance from that bouquet of champagne roses, making me nauseous.
I didn't go back to my room. Instead, I headed straight for the study.
This was the real reason I came back tonight.
The Johnson family's business empire had only expanded rapidly after my money was injected into it.
Many of the projects and accounts Michael had handled in recent years were intricately connected to the assets Cecilia had left behind.
I was going to take back what was mine—not just the properties and shares that had been transferred, but every penny of profit they'd made using my money, with interest.
I was going to make them fall from their high perch and lose everything.
The study door wasn't locked.
Michael never guarded against me because in his eyes, I was just a woman blinded by love, obedient to his every word, who didn't understand the complexities of business at all.
I opened the computer on his desk. My fingers paused as I entered the password.
I tried Freya's birthday.
The screen lit up. Success.
I sneered to myself. Just as I thought.
His affection for me was fake, but his devotion to Freya was real.
I pulled out a tiny USB drive I'd prepared earlier from my purse and plugged it into the computer. Michael's guard was weak—the core accounts of the Johnson Group, overseas trust transactions, and even some shady business contracts were all stored electronically on this computer.
I quickly found the encrypted folder and easily cracked it using the password I'd memorized from helping him organize files before.
Massive amounts of data began copying, the progress bar moving forward slowly.
While waiting, I leaned back in the cold leather chair, listening to the computer's soft hum, my nerves on high alert.
Just then, a faint sound came from upstairs—the sound of footsteps on the wooden floor.
I immediately straightened up, my heart jumping to my throat.
The sound wasn't heading toward the study, but coming from near Freya's room.
Then I heard Michael's deliberately lowered voice, as if comforting someone.
"Alright, stop crying. Didn't the doctor say you were just emotionally worked up and physically fine?"
"But I just feel so upset inside," came Freya's weak, aggrieved voice. "Will Ophelia ever forgive me? She must think I ruined your relationship..."
"Don't overthink it. It has nothing to do with you." Michael's voice carried a hint of impatience, but quickly softened. "It's my problem. I didn't handle it well. Just go to sleep. I'll stay here with you, not going anywhere."
I clenched my fists, feeling sick to my stomach.
The progress bar was still crawling forward slowly. I couldn't leave.
But the conversation between Michael and Freya upstairs buzzed in my ears like flies, making me feel utterly disgusted.
Soon, Michael's fake comfort changed tone.
First came Freya's suppressed giggle, tinged with triumph.
Then the sound of rustling clothes and the bed creaking under the weight.
"Are you... Really not leaving tonight?" Freya's voice took on a sticky, seductive quality.
"Not leaving." Michael's voice grew husky, tinged with desire. "I'll stay here with you."
What followed, even through the ceiling, was clear enough to make me sick.
Freya's coquettish moans and Michael's low murmurs.
They were putting on this disgusting show in the home I'd carefully decorated, in what was nominally my marital home.
I didn't feel an ounce of jealousy—only bone-deep revulsion and contempt.
They were like two greedy parasites, sucking my blood while thinking they owned the world.
A brilliant idea suddenly flashed through my mind.
I stood up silently, lightened my footsteps, and like a ghost left the study, slowly walking upstairs.
Freya's bedroom door was ajar, revealing a suggestive gap. The sounds inside were clearer and more shameless, unbearable to hear.
"Michael... tell me, do you love her or me?"
"You, of course, my little fool. Being with her is just for her money. Once I completely control the White family's assets, I'll have it out with her. Then you'll never have to suffer again..."
"Then hurry up... I can't wait to be your real bride..."
What a touching display of deep affection.
I leaned against the cold wall, expressionless, raised my phone, and turned on the recording function.
In the dim hallway, the phone screen's faint light illuminated my emotionless face.
Those filthy sounds, those shameless vows, were clearly recorded, becoming the first gift I'd give them.
I recorded for a full five minutes, until the moans inside reached a crescendo, before calmly pressing stop.
I didn't linger another second, turning back to the study.
On the computer screen, the file copying progress bar had finally reached the end.
I pulled out the USB drive, carefully cleared all traces of my activity, confirmed the computer was back to its original state, then shut it down.
Back in the bedroom, I placed the tiny USB drive and the phone with the recording in my inside pocket.
Outside the window, the night was deep. The noise from the next room had gradually subsided.
Michael probably thought that with one tender night, he could comfort his sickly "sister" while keeping me, his foolish wife, under control.
He didn't know that while he was lost in Freya's warm embrace, he'd personally sounded the death knell for himself and the entire Johnson family.
And his supposedly unique "love" for Freya would soon become the final nail pinning them both to the pillar of shame.
The next day, I locked myself in my room. After processing the final overseas asset transfer application, my phone screen lit up.
A text from an unknown number, brief as a command.
"8 PM tonight. The driver will be waiting at the door."
No signature, but I knew it was from Benjamin.
Looking at the message, a cold smile curved my lips.