Chapter 181 Ultimatum

Chapter 181 Ultimatum

Carl's pov

I dragged myself back to the Smith family mansion like a walking dead man.

It was already dark outside. The place that used to blaze with lights and bustle with servants was now dead quiet — not even the crystal chandelier in the living room was on. After news broke about the cash flow crisis, most of the staff had slipped away overnight, afraid they wouldn't get paid. The few who were left were already packing up, looking for a way out.

I collapsed onto the cold leather sofa and stared at the empty room. A wave of sadness and loneliness hit me hard. There was a time when I was somebody in Washington's business circles. Everywhere I went, people called me "Mr. Smith" with respect. And now here I was — thrown down the front steps like a stray dog, chased off by bodyguards like some kind of lunatic.

All because of that woman Sophia.

I buried my face in my hands, fingers digging into my graying hair.

The last thing on my mind right now was my pride. What kept me up was the three-day deadline Sophia had given me. If I couldn't pull together the full penalty payment in time, she'd release everything — the complete evidence of Vivian's plagiarism, out in the open for everyone to see. Vivian was the last thing holding the Smith family together. If a plagiarism scandal broke now, it wouldn't just destroy her reputation — it would be the end of us. For good.

"Money… I have to get the money…" I muttered to myself, barely holding it together.

The night dragged on. The mansion was so quiet I could hear the second hand ticking on the wall clock. Every tick felt like a drumbeat counting down to my death, hammering against my already shot nerves.

I paced back and forth across the living room, phone gripped tight in my hand. I'd already slashed the prices on those prime commercial properties in the East District and the luxury villas in South Bay — down to seventy percent of market value — and put them all out there. A full day had passed. Not a single call. Not one inquiry. It was like the entire Washington business community had made a silent agreement to stay far away from anything with the Smith name on it.

Then my phone went off — loud and sharp in the dead silence of the room.

I flinched. The screen showed an unfamiliar Washington landline. I swallowed hard and picked up with a shaking hand.

"Good evening, Mr. Smith." A cold, professional male voice came through the line. "I'm Lady Sophia's attorney."

The moment I heard her name, my chest tightened. "What do you want!"

"There's no need to be alarmed, Mr. Smith. I'm simply calling as a courtesy, as my client requested." His tone was flat and businesslike, completely detached. "You have less than thirty-six hours remaining before Lady Sophia's deadline. If the full payment has not been transferred to the designated account by then, we will be releasing all confirmed evidence of Vivian's plagiarism to major media outlets and industry associations. I strongly advise you not to waste any more time."

"You're trying to destroy me!" I screamed, my eyes bloodshot from rage and fear. "I've already listed the properties! The market is slow right now — assets take time to liquidate! Can't you give me a few more days!"

"I'm sorry, Mr. Smith. My client's instructions are clear — not one minute more. When the time is up, the consequences are yours to bear."

He hung up before I could say another word.

I stood there listening to the dial tone, shaking with rage. I hurled my phone onto the sofa.

I screamed at the empty room and kicked over the glass coffee table in front of me. The crash echoed through the hollow mansion. Nobody cared.

When the rage burned out, all that was left was suffocating despair.

I slumped down onto the carpet. I knew how Sophia operated. She meant every word. She wouldn't go easy on anyone. If Vivian went down, the Smith family would never recover. Not ever.

With nowhere else to turn, I forced myself to pick up the phone again and called the real estate agent.

"Strand. It's me." My voice came out raw and hoarse, like sandpaper. "Those commercial properties and lots… drop the price again. Sixty percent. No — fifty. If anyone's willing to take them, we sign tonight and I get the cash immediately."

After I hung up, I stared at the screen and waited. Like a man waiting to be sentenced.

The minutes crawled by. The wall clock pushed toward eleven. Wind howled outside the mansion, tree branches clawing at the windows like something out of a nightmare. My phone sat dark and silent in my hand. Even at fifty percent of market value — the kind of price that would normally start a bidding war — nobody was biting.

Then, at eleven-thirty, the phone buzzed.

I jumped up and grabbed it. Strand's name was on the screen.

"Strand! Did someone come through?" My voice cracked with desperate hope.

There was a pause on the other end. "Well, Mr. Smith… I did reach a buyer. But the offer… it's pretty rough."

"How much?" I swallowed. Something felt wrong.

"Thirty percent." Strand sighed. "They said thirty percent of market value, and that's their final offer. Not a cent more."

"Thirty percent?!" My eyes went wide. The blood rushed straight to my head. "Are they out of their mind?! Those are prime commercial spots in the East District — and top-tier land in South Bay! Fifty percent was already a steal, and they're coming in at thirty?! Tell them to go to hell!"