Chapter 113 This Is Where Edith Passed Away
She couldn't picture the details, but the despair and terror were carved into her bones. They surged through every vein, flooding toward her heart.
Her body began to shake—violent and uncontrollable. Her teeth chattered.
She slammed her head against the wooden armrest of the couch, again and again, trying to beat back the suffocating fear with pain. But all she got was a dull throb in her forehead. Nothing else changed.
On the private jet bound overseas, Alexander sat slumped in the wide leather seat. His gaze drifted toward the window, toward the churning sea of clouds below. His eyes were hollow.
Images of the past few days with Caroline kept flashing through his mind—tangled limbs, her body beneath his. He couldn't stop the images.
He didn't know what was wrong with him. Ever since that first time he'd lost control, it was like an addiction. Whenever his mind cleared, even a little, all he wanted was to pin her down, take her, devour her, watch her cry, hear her gasp.
As if that was the only way to fill the restless, gnawing emptiness inside him.
He'd even taught her new things, patiently, helping her discover every sensitive spot on her body.
It was no longer punishment. It was something else—deeper, more consuming.
He just wanted her. No other reason.
But every time it ended, regret crashed over him. Self-loathing. He wanted to lash out at her, say the cruelest things he could think of, push her away.
But then he'd see her sleeping in his arms, exhausted and soft. Or she'd wake up and look at him with that careful, worried expression. And the words would stick in his throat, turning into something else—something he couldn't name.
He was the one losing control now.
What scared him most was this: when he was inside her, when he was lost in her body, Edith's face grew fainter, blurrier.
By the end, all he could see was Caroline—her tear-filled eyes, her flushed cheeks, her stifled breathing.
He had to force himself to remember what Edith's smile looked like.
Something was very wrong.
Alexander closed his eyes. His head pounded.
Liam noticed his furrowed brow and assumed he wasn't feeling well. He quietly draped a blanket over him.
Suddenly, a flight attendant hurried down the aisle from the front cabin.
Liam shot him a warning look. Be quiet. Don't disturb him.
But the attendant walked straight to Liam and leaned down, whispering urgently.
Liam's face went white.
He sat up sharply. "What?!"
Alexander's eyes snapped open. Irritation flared. "What is it?"
Liam turned, his voice shaking. "Mr. Hamilton, it's Kenna. She called the emergency line and they patched it through to the plane. She says Mrs. Neville took Mrs. Hamilton, claiming it was for Mr. Neville's birthday—that she wanted to take her shopping for a dress. Kenna didn't know what to do. Mrs. Neville threatened her. She had no choice but to let her go."
Alexander's expression turned to ice. His eyes went sharp and cold.
He slammed his hand down on the armrest. "Idiot!"
Didn't anyone tell Kenna that Caroline cut ties with the Neville Family months ago?
Even Damon had accepted it, letting her give up her inheritance. They were strangers now. So why the hell would she be shopping for his birthday?
That couple had no intention of seeing her out of love.
Liam wiped sweat from his temple, his voice strained. "The incident at the apartment—and Mrs. Hamilton's relationship with the Neville Family—you ordered a total information blackout, sir. Kenna might not have known. She only knew that Mrs. Neville was Mrs. Hamilton's mother. And she mentioned Mr. Armando Hamilton's friendship with Mr. Neville…"
Alexander's fists clenched.
"Get someone to check. Now. Go to the Neville Mansion," his voice was steel. "And contact our people on the ground. I want eyes on them."
He turned to the nervous flight attendant, his words slow and deliberate. "Tell the captain to turn the plane around—now."
The helicopter's rotors tore through the air. The roar was deafening. Even through the thick floor and walls of the basement, Caroline could hear it clearly.
It sounded like a countdown to her death.
She curled into herself in the cold corner. Her body shook harder.
The iron door swung open.
Blinding light poured in. She couldn't open her eyes.
Two guards stepped inside—no expression, no hesitation. They grabbed her and hauled her up.
Her wrists were ripped free from the rope. The rough fibers tore across her skin.
"Ah!" She flinched as pain shot through her.
Warm blood welled up instantly, dripping down her fingers.
They dragged her out of the basement. She stumbled. The sunlight in the back courtyard was blinding.
In the distance, the helicopter sat on the landing pad. The guards pulled her toward it.
As they passed the covered walkway, Caroline turned her head and looked at Isabella.
Her lips were still taped shut. All she could do was beg with her eyes. 'Mom, please… let me go…'
Isabella didn't look at her. She spoke to the guards, her voice flat. "Take her straight to the docks. Make it clean."
"Yes, Mrs. Hamilton."
The guards answered in unison and moved faster.
Caroline's heart sank.
Her mother—the woman she loved most—was really going to kill her.
She was shoved into the back seat of the helicopter. The door slammed shut.
The helicopter swept over the city skyline. Caroline pressed herself against the window. Below, the coastline stretched endlessly.
Soon, the helicopter descended toward an abandoned dock.
The rotors hadn't even stopped when the door was yanked open.
Caroline was dragged out.
The rough, weathered planks scraped against her shins. Skin tore. Blood streaked behind her in thin, winding trails.
She was hauled like a piece of trash. They stopped over a section of the dock where the wood was darker than the rest.
A guard pressed down on her shoulder, his knee digging into her lower back. He forced her to kneel, forced her to face the stain.
"Look closely," his voice was cold, right in her ear. "This is where Ms. Edith Neville died. That stain you're looking at? That's where her blood soaked into the wood."