Chapter 105
The roar of the engine was deafening.
In darkness and jolting motion, I curled my body tight, listening to the howling wind outside, and closed my eyes in despair.
Luke, I'm sorry.
This game, it seemed, had spun out of our control from the very beginning.
I don't know how long the trunk jostled me around. Just as the heavy gasoline fumes were about to suffocate me into unconsciousness, the car finally stopped. I was yanked out like a sack of potatoes, then roughly shoved into an ice-cold chair.
Beneath the black hood, I could hear the breathing of more than one person—heavy, oppressive, like an invisible net closing in.
The hood was ripped off. Sudden harsh light stabbed my eyes.
I squinted reflexively. It took several moments to adjust to the dingy yellow glow of this sealed room.
This was a vast basement. The walls were rough concrete, reeking of damp mold.
Before me stood a gaunt old man with snow-white hair.
He wore an impeccably tailored dark suit and leaned on a cane topped with a carved dragon's head. His cloudy eyes held a venom so thick it had almost solidified.
Behind him, a dozen black-clad bodyguards stood like statues, making the room feel even more ominous.
"Who are you?" I clenched my bound hands behind my back, forcing myself to stay calm. "Why did you bring me here? What do you want?"
The old man didn't answer right away. He simply scrutinized me inch by inch with those dead-water eyes, as if examining a sacrificial offering about to be shattered.
After a long pause, he finally spoke, his voice rasping like two stones grinding together. "My name is Harold Rogers. My only son attended that yacht party."
My heart plummeted.
"He didn't come back." Harold's voice was devoid of emotion, yet the bone-deep grief made the air in the basement feel several degrees colder. "They say it was your man Luke who killed him. One shot. Right between the eyes."
He took a step forward, lifting my chin with the cold dragon-head cane. The hatred in his eyes flickered like twin ghost flames in the dim light.
"I can't find that coward Luke hiding in his hole, so I invited you instead, Miss Windsor." Each word dripped with malice. "I will make you suffer every torment my son endured before he died. Your life will be the offering to appease his spirit."
So—Luke's enemy.
No. Lawrence's enemy, pinned on Luke.
In that instant, my fear was replaced by an absurd, icy calm.
"Luke is innocent." I met those murderous eyes, my voice quiet but crystal clear. "Mr. Rogers, you've been deceived. The real killer of your son was Lawrence."
"Lies!" Harold erupted in fury, slamming his cane against the floor with a dull boom. "Everyone says it was Luke! Even his own sister publicly disowned him! You filthy accomplice—how long do you think you can fool me?"
"That was all theater staged by Lawrence!" I raised my voice, my lawyer's instincts kicking in with surgical clarity. "Think about it—on that ship, why did Lawrence and all his men walk away without a scratch, while everyone else, including Luke, either died or was gravely injured—some even reduced to ashes?"
My question struck like a needle into the weak point of his logic.
"Doesn't that strike you as strange?" I pressed on. "If Luke was the mastermind behind the massacre, why would he nearly kill himself in the process? Why blow up the entire yacht and risk mutual destruction? It makes no sense!"
The rage in Harold's eyes slowly hardened, replaced by a flicker of doubt barely perceptible.
He'd clearly thought of this before, but grief had blinded him.
"Go and investigate." I seized the moment, my tone almost certain. "Check the statements of all the survivors. See if Lawrence's bodyguards had a single scratch on them. Find out who walked away from that explosion completely unscathed! The real killer would never leave himself battered and broken."
The basement fell into a deathly silence.
Harold's cloudy eyes bored into mine, as if trying to discern truth from deception. After a long moment, he slowly lowered his cane.
"Lock her up," he said, turning away. His voice was still cold, but the killing intent had dulled.
I was dragged to another, smaller cell.
No windows. Just a single yellow bulb hanging from the ceiling.
I don't know how much time passed before the small window in the iron door slid open. A bowl of steaming white porridge and a bottle of water were shoved inside.
My heart finally settled, just a little.
If he was feeding me, my words had worked. He was willing to investigate.
What followed was a long, agonizing wait.
In this room cut off from the world, I lost all sense of time. I could only guess at the passage of days and nights by counting the meals delivered.
I didn't know how long I'd been imprisoned—maybe three days, maybe five.
Just as the endless darkness and silence were pushing my mind to the brink of collapse, the heavy iron door was finally kicked open with a violent bang.
Harold stormed in, bodyguards in tow.
His wrinkled face was contorted with fury beyond measure. His eyes burned with a murderous intent a hundred times fiercer than before.
"What a silver tongue you have, Miss Windsor!" he roared, hurling a tablet at my feet. "I almost believed your pack of lies!"
I froze, staring down at the glowing screen.
One glance, and all the blood drained from my body. My limbs turned ice-cold, as if I'd plunged into a freezing abyss.
The screen was looping a surveillance video.
The footage showed the hellish corridor of that yacht.
Luke's tall figure stood in the center, holding a black pistol. Expressionless, he aimed at several guests lying in pools of blood, still twitching—and calmly delivered the final, fatal shot to each one.
The video was like a bucket of ice water dumped over my head, freezing the last shred of my strength into shards.
On screen, Luke's face—the face I had engraved on my heart—was as cold and ruthless as a demon from hell.
The gun in his hand spat fire, precisely ending one struggling life after another.
His movements were clean, efficient, without a trace of hesitation—as if he were merely disposing of an eyesore pile of trash.
No. This isn't him.
The thought roared from the deepest part of my soul, pure instinct.