Chapter 19: Even If He Craves Her Death......

Lockwood Mansion – Study Room

The contract lay on the mahogany desk, its title screaming in bold: UNCONDITIONAL ASSETS TRANSFER AGREEMENT.

Daniel Lockwood didn't bother hiding his smirk. "Sign? Over my dead body."

He made no move to fight. Years of dissipation had left his reflexes dulled—no match for the triple-threat of bodyguards by the door. But his defiance sent a new tension crackling through the room.

Alistair Lockwood's cane tapped an erratic rhythm against the Persian rug. For the first time in two decades, his puppet's strings had snapped.

"Good. Very good." Alistair's chuckle carried frost. "I raised you with my own ruthlessness, it seems. Let's test its limits." A snap of his fingers. "Confiscate his phone. Lock him in his room—no food, no water—until that signature's on paper."

The guards advanced. Daniel didn't flinch. He tossed his phone onto the desk with a clack, eyes never leaving his adoptive parents. "Hope you've prepared for the consequences."

As he strode toward his childhood bedroom, Alistair's grip tightened on the cane. That casual tone... That certainty...

Since when did this wastrel learn to play chess?

Yang Rongjuan touched her pearls nervously. "He's bluffing."

"Doesn't matter." Alistair watched Daniel's retreating back. "If he won't sign as a pauper, he'll sign as a corpse."

Simultaneously – Jiang City High-Speed Rail Station

Elena Vanderbilt's gloved hand crushed the boarding pass.

Wyatt stood sentinel beside her, scanning the crowd for a face that wouldn't come.

Charlotte Xiao's absence was palpable. She remained in Jiang City, handling the final transfer procedures of Vanderbilt Industries' assets to Daniel—a bitter transaction that should have severed all ties.

Three hours.

That's how long Elena Vanderbilt had lingered at the departure gate since her hospital discharge. Three times she'd rescheduled her train. Three chances she'd given fate.

The damning evidence still burned behind her eyelids—those photos of Daniel entangled with another woman, the audio recording of his honeyed promises meant for someone else. It should have been the final straw.

Yet here she stood, her Valentino heels rooted to the station floor as the announcement blared.

One message. Just one.

She was a woman who commanded boardrooms with a glance, yet this helpless waiting reduced her to that orphan girl again—pathetic, powerless.

The crowd swirled around her. A young couple brushed past, their interlaced fingers a mockery. Elena's throat tightened.

These past days, she'd sworn she saw something—a softening in Daniel's eyes when he thought she wasn't looking, an unspoken plea hovering on his lips. Enough to make her cancel meetings, postpone acquisitions, stand here like a lovestruck fool.

"Ms. Vanderbilt." Wyatt's baritone cut through her thoughts. "Final boarding call."

The electronic display flashed red. Her train doors began closing.

Elena inhaled slowly, the station's antiseptic air filling her lungs like liquid nitrogen.

Was it all just my imagination?

"Proceed," she said, her voice smoother than the champagne they'd shared at their engagement party.

But as she stepped toward the platform, her fingers brushed against her silent phone—still, after all this time, achingly dark.

Jiang City High-Speed Rail Station

Elena's fingers moved before her mind could protest. The phone felt alien in her grip—this wasn't how Vanderbilt heiresses begged for scraps of attention.

One last check. One final humiliation.

Charlotte answered on the second ring. "Ms. Vanderbilt, have you boarded?"

A pregnant pause. The station's departure chime mocked her hesitation.

"Has he contacted you?" The question escaped like a prisoner—raw and unbecoming.

"No."

Charlotte's reply came too fast, scalding in its finality. The syllable hung between them, a guillotine blade severing hope.

Perhaps I never mattered to him at all.

No—worse.

Perhaps I never existed in his heart to begin with.

"Understood." Elena disconnected before her voice could fracture.

The train doors sighed open before her. One last glance at Jiang City's modest skyline—where skyscrapers didn't dare overshadow her grief.

Capital City awaits. The thought should have tasted like victory. Instead, it settled like medicinal charcoal—purgative and necessary.

She stepped across the threshold.

To release him is to reclaim myself.

—

Vanderbilt Industries - Executive Office

Charlotte stared at the call log, Daniel's new number burning beneath her "Recent Contacts". Her palms left damp ghosts on the leather chair arms.

The lie had been flawless. Quick. Clean. Yet its weight pressed against her sternum like a tombstone.

She knew—god, she knew—how Elena's lashes would lower just so when hearing that merciless "no". Knew the exact angle at which her boss would tilt her chin to stop tears from falling.

Forgive me, Ms. Vanderbilt.

Her trembling fingers unlocked the desk drawer. The burner phone inside displayed one unread message:

[Daniel Lockwood, 08:17 AM]"Did she ask about me?"

Vanderbilt Industries – Executive Office

Charlotte's nails bit crescent moons into her palms. She knew exactly how Elena's breath would catch—that barely audible hitch she'd perfected over years of swallowing heartbreak. Knew how her boss's Patek Philippe would tick three extra seconds before she masked the pain with boardroom steel.

But this lie is the tourniquet that might save her.

The apology whispered to the empty office wasn't for the deception, but for its necessity: "Forgive me for choosing your survival over your happiness."

Her trembling hand yanked open the desk drawer. The burner phone glowed accusingly, Daniel's last message searing her retinas:

[Daniel Lockwood, 08:17 AM]

"Is she gone yet?"

Golden Harbor Villas – Master Bedroom

The slap echoed through the gold-leafed chamber like a gunshot.

"You viper!" Li Fujiang's roar sent crystal pendants trembling in the chandelier. His wife Wu Rong sprawled at his feet, her designer blouse tearing as she caught herself on their son's abandoned IV stand. "Dong'er's been vomiting blood for weeks—and you were his poison!"

The heir's illness had defied every specialist in Longjiang Province. In desperation, Li had pursued rumors of the legendary Dr. Zhang Zizhen to Jiang City—only to be turned away at both the hermit's clinic and Jiang City Central Hospital.

That's when he appeared.

Daniel Lockwood's wild accusation—Your wife administers arsenic with his evening ginseng tea—had seemed ludicrous. Until the security footage: Wu Rong's lacquered fingers slipping powder into their son's cup every night at 9:15 PM. Precisely when Dong'er's seizures began.

Li hauled her up by her $8,000 Hermès scarf. "Confess the antidote," he hissed, "or I'll peel that face you treasure millimeter by millimeter."

Wu Rong's laughter bubbled blood. "Test... the samples yourself... You'll see—"

Intercut Revelation

In the hospital lab, a forgotten toxicology report flashed its verdict:

Positive for Atropa belladonna - Dosage consistent with gradual neurotoxicity

Golden Harbor Villas – Master Bedroom

Li Fujiang's diamond-encrusted watch caught the light as he dragged Wu Rong up by her hair. "What poison did you feed my son?" The words slithered between clenched teeth, each syllable dripping with lethal intent.

Blood pooled in the hollow of Wu Rong's collarbone, staining her $15,000 La Perla nightgown crimson. She met his gaze without flinching—this man who'd buried his first wife before the wedding photos faded.

"Medicine," she rasped, her chipped front tooth whistling on the 'm'. "The bitter kind... that purges rotten bloodlines."

Li's laughter was a blade scraping bone. He flung the toxicology report at her—the paper slicing her cheek before settling on the floor like a dead thing. Positive: Strychnine. 0.4mg/kg daily. Cumulative.

"You call rat poison medicine?" His Berluti loafer connected with her ribs. "I gave you everything—and you repay me by murdering my heir?"

Wu Rong spat ruby droplets onto his $8,000 shoes. "Check... your lab techs... Daniel Lockwood owns them—"

Survival CalculusHer broken fingers twitched toward the concealed vial in her bra strap. As long as she held the antidote, she held leverage. Confession meant death. Denial meant—

Crack. Another rib gave way.

InterruptionThe bodyguard stepped over her convulsing body like a discarded mink stole. "Sir," he said, offering a monogrammed card, "the investigator's report. The suspect is Daniel Lockwood—adopted son of Alistair and Yang Rongjuan of Lockwood Group."

A phone number glowed up from the heavy stock paper. Li's gold Rolex trembled against the embossed digits.

Wu Rong's bloody chuckle bubbled. "Told... you..."