When Martin returned to the mansion, the air felt stale, lacking the faint scent of lavender and citrus that usually accompanied Sarah's presence. Instead, the sitting room felt heavy with the smell of cheap perfume and old smoke. Charlotte was there, perched on the edge of the designer sofa like a bird of prey. Her legs were crossed tightly, her eyes bloodshot and rimmed with a frantic, exhausted red. Her hair, that signature vibrant red he had once found so alluring looked frazzled and matted, as if it hadn't touched water or a comb in days.
The moment Martin saw her, his professional guard, already battered from the disaster at the office, crumbled. He swung into action, rushing to her side with a desperate need to feel needed. He wrapped his arms around her, and for a second, she melted into the embrace. All his conflicting emotions, the rage at the board, the fear of the lawsuit, the guilt over the kidnapping dissipated into a surge of protective concern.
"What happened to you, honey?" Martin whispered into her hair.
Charlotte sniffed, and the tears she had been holding back finally spilled over, soaking into the shoulder of his jacket. She buried her face against him, her voice muffled and trembling.
"It's Sa… Sa… Sarah."
Martin froze. He felt a cold prickle at the base of his neck. What did Sarah have to do with this again? She was supposed to be a memory, a ghost he had laid to rest in the dark.
"What about Sarah?" Martin asked, his voice tightening with a sudden, sharp edge of concern.
"She has been bothering me... I haven't been sleeping properly at night. I see her everywhere, Martin. In the shadows, in the hallways." Even though Charlotte's claims sounded ridiculous, the ramblings of a guilty conscience, her face was deathly serious. She looked like a woman haunted.
"But… but Sarah is supposed to be dead by now," Martin stammered. The words felt heavy and foul in his mouth.
Charlotte stopped crying abruptly. she pulled back, staring at him with wild, accusing eyes. "Have you seen her dead body? Have you? Have you even heard from the men, Martin? Have you seen the proof?"
Martin rubbed his face with his palms, the friction stinging his skin. "I have not heard from them. It has been two days. Every effort to contact them has been futile. The phones are dead."
"Then how are we supposed to know that witch is truly gone?" Charlotte's voice rose to a shrill, piercing frequency. "No wonder I can't sleep! What have you been doing, Martin? Are you now so dumb, so weak, that you cannot even deal with one orphan girl? You've let her ruin our lives from the grave!"
When Martin heard the woman he had risked everything for, the woman he had chosen over his most loyal partner, raise her voice at him with such derogatory words, something inside him snapped. It was like a physical click in his brain. His eyes darkened, turning a shade of midnight that signaled the end of his patience. Suddenly, he wasn't mad at Sarah anymore. The ghost of Sarah seemed like a saint compared to the screaming, hysterical woman before him.
He looked at Charlotte and saw her clearly for the first time: she was a wench. She was the root cause of the rot in his life. These past few days had been the most hectic, soul-crushing days of his career, and Charlotte had offered him nothing. No assistance, no consolation, no strategic advice.
In times of difficulty, Sarah would mother him. She would pamper him, prepare his favorite meals, and act as his maid, his advisor, and his shield. Charlotte did none of that. She only took. She demanded Cybertrucks and diamonds while he was drowning in debt. She made his life more difficult at every turn.
As these thoughts swirled, a white-hot anger swelled in his chest. He began to move toward her, his footsteps heavy and deliberate. His intent was no longer protective; it was murderous.
Charlotte sensed the shift in the atmosphere immediately. The air in the room seemed to vanish. She moved back instinctively, her eyes widening as she realized she had bitten off far more than she could chew. She knew Martin was capable of wickedness, she had encouraged it, after all, but she hadn't expected that venom to be turned on her. If he could plot to kill Sarah, a girl who had been by his side since they were teenagers, a girl who had sacrificed her own dreams to build his empire, then who was Charlotte to him? She was just a replacement.
Martin moved too fast for her to react. He closed the distance in two strides, his large palm snapping around her neck with a terrifying, singular focus. His huge body cut off any path of escape, pinning her against the back of the sofa. Charlotte felt her breath hitch as his grip tightened, blocking her oxygen. Her life didn't just flash before her eyes; it felt like it was being squeezed out of her.
"Ple… please… I'm sorry," she wheezed, her hands clawing at his iron wrist.
But Martin's eyes were pitch black. Whatever humanity had been left in him had retreated deep into the abyss. He watched her face turn a mottled purple, watched her eyes go blank as the pain in her throat became unbearable. Just as the darkness was closing in on her, just as she had accepted that her heart was about to stop, Martin released her abruptly.
Charlotte fell to the floor with a loud, sickening thud. She lay there, bruised and trembling, gasping for precious oxygen. Her throat burned as if she had swallowed glass.
Martin hovered over her like a villain from a nightmare. His voice was a menacing, low-frequency rumble. "Don't you ever speak to me that way again, you cheap roadside whore. You can never compare to her. Not ten of you brought together could equal a single hair on her head!"
He punctuated his words by kicking her twice in the stomach, the impact making her curl into a ball. He spat on the floor beside her and dashed toward the bathroom, slamming the door behind him.
Charlotte winced, the pain in her abdomen radiating through her body. She struggled to get up, her limbs feeling like lead. She knew she had to leave. If she was still there when he came out of that shower, he might finish what he started. She dragged herself toward the door, her pride shattered, and vanished into the night.
When Martin finally emerged from the bathroom, the steam from the shower had left him feeling a bit sobered, though the whiskey in his blood was still singing. He felt a flicker of regret. He had already lost Sarah; he didn't want to lose Charlotte, too. 'I'll apologize later,' he thought, pouring himself a fresh glass of whiskey and downing it in one burning gulp.
He picked up his phone to check the headlines, expecting to see news of the Canaan University scandal. Instead, a notification at the top of the screen made his heart stop.
A missed call.
It was from "Black Tiger" the head of the kidnapping operation.
Martin's fingers trembled as he dialed the number back. It didn't go through. He tried again. 'The number you have dialed is switched off.'
He stared at the screen, perplexed. Was it a prank? A glitch in the network? Or had he finally drunk so much that he was hallucinating? He was about to give up and pass out on the bed when the phone vibrated in his hand. A text message.
Sender: Black Tiger
Message: Hi Boss
Martin sat upright, his breath hitching. Before he could even wrap his head around the first text, another popped up.
Message: I am back
The air in the room suddenly felt freezing. Martin stared at the words. 'I am back.' Not "We are back." Just "I."
He felt a cold sweat break out across his brow. Where had they been for two days? And if only the leader was back, what had happened to the others? The silence of the mansion suddenly felt very, very dangerous.