Chapter 149 Pathetic excuse

Chapter 149 Pathetic excuse
Violet,

Next day,

I sat at the table across from my father, studying the man who looked like he had aged ten years in just a handful of days. His shoulders slumped forward as if the weight of the concrete walls had finally pressed into his spine.

The prison-issued clothes hung loosely on his frame, no longer tailored by power or money. Three armed officers and two of my bodyguards stood outside the waiting room, visible through the glass wall. Their presence didn’t comfort me. It only reminded me how necessary they were.

He raised his head slowly, eyes bloodshot, lids heavy as if sleep had abandoned him completely. Bruises bloomed along his forearms, yellow and purple, half-hidden beneath the sleeves. A shallow cut split his lower lip, already scabbed over.

I felt nothing looking at him. No pity. No satisfaction. Just a hollow stillness, as though I were staring at a stranger who had spent his life trying to erase me.

I sat comfortably, leaning back into the chair, crossing my legs with deliberate ease. “So,” I broke the silence, my voice cutting cleanly through the stale air, “did it worth it?”

His jaw tightened. For a moment, he didn’t answer, just stared at the table as if it might offer him an escape. Then his eyes lifted to mine, dark and irritated. “What do you mean?”

I leaned forward, resting my elbows on the table. “Everything,” I said quietly. “What did you get after all this, Dad? Power? For what?” My lips curled slightly, not into a smile but something sharper.

“You had a company earning over five hundred million dollars annually. A billion-dollar empire. Assets. Influence. A future. You could have lived comfortably. A respected businessman. A man with a clean record and a family.” My voice dropped. “Instead, you chose to turn against your own daughter and become some cheap mafia boss.”

My teeth clenched as I whispered the next words. “Why did you hate me so much that you hired those bastards to kill me?”

The bitterness flooded my mouth, thick and metallic, making me want to end the conversation right there. My fingers curled against the tabletop, nails pressing into the wood.

He shifted in his chair, shoulders rolling as though the question physically hurt him. His gaze slid away from mine, landing anywhere but my face. Silence stretched between us, heavy and suffocating.

“Come on,” I said flatly. “Don’t give me that nonsense about me being an accident. Or that I’m not your daughter. Spare me.”

His head snapped up. Rage flickered across his face, raw and unfiltered. “I wish you really weren’t my daughter!” He slammed his palm against the table, the sound echoing sharply. “I regret having you.”

I didn’t flinch. “You don’t need to say what I already know,” I replied coolly. “Waste of time. Just tell me why. Why the hatred?” I tilted my head slightly. “You could have had everything. Power, money, and a life where you didn’t have to rot like this.”

His chest rose and fell unevenly. He looked exhausted now, like a man stripped bare of excuses.

I exhaled slowly. “It doesn’t make sense,” I continued. “Hating a child for your own mistake? You failing to use protection doesn’t give you the right to punish the child.” My voice softened, not with mercy but with contempt. “And just because someone forced you to let me be born didn’t give you the right to try to kill me either.”

I leaned closer. “What were you thinking when you decided to hate me? Trying to exile me? Even before I took over the company?”

My relentless questions turned his face red. Veins stood out along his neck. His hands clenched into fists as he finally looked me straight in the eyes.

“You want to know why?” he snarled. “Then listen.” His lip curled. “This face. I hate it. Anything that reminds me of my mother makes me sick. Even your face makes me want to throw up.”

I remained still.

“I hated that woman,” he continued, voice rising. “I always wished she was dead. The day she forced my wife to give birth to you, the day my wife almost died in labor, I swore I’d get rid of you. But I couldn’t.” His laugh was hollow. “She ruined my life. If she had just reconciled with my father, things would’ve been different. If she had accepted Elder Silverfang, I would’ve had a father like Jonathan. But she was stubborn. Disgusting.” His eyes burned. “I hate her. And I hate you because of her. If you want someone to blame, blame her.”

“You look like her,” I said calmly, resting my elbow on the table. “You know that, right?”

His pupils dilated. “What did you say?”

“You look like her too,” I repeated. “So why didn’t you kill yourself instead?” My voice was ice-cold. “You share her DNA. Her blood. Her flesh. You enjoy her hard-earned money while pretending you’re self-made. And you still dare to act like everything related to her disgusts you?” I leaned back slightly. “What are you? A hypocrite?”

The color drained from his face. Fear flickered behind his eyes, replacing rage.

“I just wasted my time here,” I said, standing slowly. “Now I understand why Grandma said you’re just like her husband. Selfish. Greedy. Unreasonable.” I shook my head. “I thought there would be some grand reason behind why you wanted me dead. Turns out, you’re just pathetic.”

“Watch your tongue!” he shouted. “I’m your father!”

I laughed softly. “Father? Don’t flatter yourself.” My smile was sharp. “Your own father abandoned his rights because he didn’t want his past mistake in his new life. Now I see why.”

“What did you just say?” he snarled.

“You heard me.” I shrugged. “Neither your parents nor your wife ever truly wanted you. Just like you never wanted me.”

“Are you saying this to spite me?” he demanded.

“Do you really think I have time for that?” I rolled my eyes. “I thought, like Erica Silverfang, there might be some secret worth uncovering. How disappointing.”

“What do you mean by Erica Silverfang?” His eyes narrowed.

I smirked. “You didn’t know? We found Knox’s real mother. She’s alive. With her son. And it looks like all Silverfang properties will go directly to them. Including Fontana’s will.”

His face flushed crimson. “That’s impossible. She should be dead!” His voice cracked.

I shrugged. “Guess not.”

I turned to leave. “Enjoy your new residence. Hope the torture isn’t too harsh.”

“Wait,” he blurted out, panic creeping into his voice. “How is Jenny? Anna? Did you do something to them?”

I paused and looked back. “Even if I did something,” I said calmly, “what could you do?”

I walked away without looking back.