Chapter 283
In the cloaked splendor of the Monroe sisters’ tent, pitched at the ragged seam where the luxury campground kissed the mountains, celebration hung in the air like perfume sprayed over a crime scene. From the outside it looked innocent enough—just another oversized glamping palace among the pines. Inside, it was an altar to excess: silk panels stitched with lazy rivers of gold, velvet cushions plump as spoiled housecats, and Persian rugs so soft they practically begged forgiveness for the sins committed above them. Champagne breathed in crystal flutes on the low table, the bubbles rising with cheerful determination, as if they too were eager to hear the gossip of the damned.
Bianca Monroe wore the lantern light the way other people wore jewelry. Her light-brown skin glowed, flawless and fierce, and her green eyes shone with the bright, cruel delight of someone who had finally won a long, dirty game. Glossy black hair swept into a high ponytail framed a black dress molded to her athletic figure—a dress that announced money, power, and a complete lack of conscience in three different languages. Beside her sprawled Sarai, younger but already carved from the same poisonous marble, her laughter slipping out in elegant, sarcastic ribbons. In her emerald gown she resembled a flower that looked beautiful only because no one had touched the thorns yet.
Mirabel Vexley sat across from them, tall and unyielding, the queen of winter in a room pretending it was summer. Early fifties, not that she would ever admit to anything as ordinary as age. Pearls glimmered in her perfect updo, matching the sheen of her silk blouse and the impossible heels she refused to remove—Mirabel believed bare feet were for peasants and honest women, and she was neither. Her smile was polished steel, cold enough to chill the champagne without ice.
The flutes met with a crisp chime, the sound neat and respectable. Nothing about the women who made it was.
Bianca sank back against the cushions with a satisfied sigh and the lazy confidence of a cat describing how it had eaten the canary.
“Ladies, I’ve brought dessert before dinner,” she said, swirling her glass. “Eliana—the persistent little cockroach—has been handled. I tailed her to the trail last night and helped gravity remember its job.” She gave a small, proud shrug. “One gentle push into that ditch. If the fall doesn’t finish her, it will definitely end the baby. Either way, Rafael finally gets a tragedy he can’t blame on his dry cleaner p>
Sarai’s eyes flared. “You mean she’s really p>
“Falling décor,” Bianca replied. “Mountains are terrible hosts. No guardrails, no manners p>
Sarai clapped her hands, forgetting elegance for half a second. “Oh, Bianca, marry me if Rafael refuses!” she crowed. “At last that sanctimonious witch meets real life instead of preaching about it. Growing up with her was hell—Eliana thought kindness was currency. Imagine paying rent with smiles!” She lifted her flute high. “Here’s to Eliana Bennett-Vexley. May the mosquitoes be faithful mourners p>
The older woman, Mirabel, allowed herself a smile that looked almost warm—almost, the way a freezer burn can feel like a hug. “Impressive work,” she murmured. “That girl was a misprint in a family that deals only in first editions.” Her gaze slid to Sarai. “And you, my dear, will no longer compete with second-hand rubbish. Jason will be yours without the burden of gratitude. Bianca, you may now turn your attentions to my son. Rafael has always been disappointingly tender beneath his so-called ’Vexley resolve.’ With Eliana gone he’ll unravel like cheap lace—and I despise cheap lace p>
Bianca chuckled, raising her glass again, but her sharp eyes hid a secret. She hadn’t mentioned Jason tumbling into the ditch alongside Eliana. Why spoil the party? Sarai’s obsession with that golden-boy charmer—his hazel eyes, blonde hair, gym-toned body, and narcissistic charm—had always irked her. Jason was a liability, entitled and unfaithful, and Bianca wanted him erased. Let Sarai mourn later; for now, the wine flowed, and laughter echoed like shards of glass.
“To power,” Bianca toasted, her tone dramatic and captivating. “And to those who dare stand in our way—may they fall, quite literally p>
Sarai giggled, her possessive streak momentarily sated. “Hear, hear! Imagine Jason’s face when he hears. He’ll come running back to me, begging for comfort. Eliana was always too trusting, too hopeful with that stupid smile of hers. She never saw us coming p>
Mirabel nodded, her pearls clinking softly. “Vulnerability is weakness, girls. Eliana learned that the hard way. Now, pass the bottle—let’s make this a night to remember p>
But as the wine poured and their laughter swelled, shadows stirred outside the tent. H’s men—ten elite enforcers clad in black tactical gear, their faces obscured by balaclavas—moved like ghosts in the night. They were professionals, honed by years of covert operations: silent footsteps on the soft earth, coordinated signals via subtle hand gestures. The campgrounds were alive with distant murmurs of worried crowds gathered for updates on Eliana, but these men drew no attention. One signaled with a gloved hand, and in a blur, they breached the tent flap.
Bianca’s laugh caught in her throat as dark figures surged in. “What the p>
Before she could scream, a hand clamped over her mouth, a chloroform-soaked cloth pressing firmly. Sarai’s eyes bulged in terror, her wine glass shattering on the rug as she was yanked backward, her elegant gown tearing slightly. Mirabel, ever the fighter, swung her heel like a weapon, but it was futile; a swift jab to her pressure point dropped her into unconsciousness. The men worked with chilling efficiency—no noise, no struggle visible from outside. Within seconds, the women were bound, gagged, and hoisted over shoulders like sacks of forgotten wealth.
Meanwhile, in a faraway tent, Charles Vexley sat alone, his silver-fox features etched with a stern expression softened by rare regret. Late 50s, always in a tailored suit even in this wilderness retreat, he nursed a scotch, his sharp eyes distant. The detached businessman who’d favored Rafael until the “accident”—orchestrated by Mirabel’s greed—now moped in solitude. “How did it come to this?” he muttered to himself, his voice passive and calculating. “Rafael was my heir, my legacy. If only I could get him back… talk sense into him, away from everyone. Mirabel’s plans have gone too far p>
His soliloquy was interrupted by the tent flap rustling. Before he could react, H’s men swarmed him too— a quick takedown, no mercy for the weak-willed patriarch. Bound and silenced, Charles joined the others in the back of a blacked-out van, rumbling toward the mountains.
The journey was a blur of darkness and dread. The van climbed winding paths, tires crunching over gravel, until it reached a hidden entrance in the rugged peaks. Below lay the Underground—a vast cave system transformed into a prison and torture ground. Stalactites dripped like fangs from the ceiling, the air damp and chilled, echoing with the distant drip of water. Dim red lights illuminated iron-barred cells carved into the rock, chains rattling faintly in the breeze from hidden vents. Torture implements gleamed on metal tables: pliers, electrodes, waterboards—tools of extraction, designed to break the unbreakable. The cave smelled of earth and fear, a dramatic labyrinth where screams could echo forever without reaching the surface.
H arrived separately, slipping into a concealed observation room behind a one-way screen of reinforced glass. He sat in a high-backed chair, his powerful frame exuding controlled fury, eyes dark as the abyss. Earpiece in place, he watched as his men dragged the captives in, stripping them of jewelry and binding them to cold metal chairs bolted to the stone floor. The room was cavernous, shadows playing tricks on the walls, heightening the captives’ terror.
As the effects of the chloroform wore off, groans filled the air. Bianca blinked first, her sharp green eyes focusing on the grim surroundings. “Where… where the hell are we?” she demanded, her voice defiant despite the ropes biting into her wrists.
Sarai whimpered beside her, her glossy hair disheveled, makeup streaked. “Bianca? What’s happening? This can’t be real p>
Mirabel, ever composed, tested her bonds with a cold glare. “Whoever you are, you have no idea who you’re dealing with. Release us now, and perhaps I’ll spare your lives p>
Charles, in the chair opposite, looked bewildered, his stern expression cracking. “Mirabel? What have you dragged us into now p>
One of H’s men—a burly figure with a tattooed face, his voice gravelly through a modulator—stepped forward, flanked by others. H’s instructions buzzed in their earpieces: “Start with Bianca. Break her first p>
The leader loomed over Bianca, his presence dramatic and intimidating. “Bianca Monroe. Confess. You pushed Eliana Bennett-Vexley and Jason Asher into that ditch last night. Admit it, and maybe we’ll go easy p>
Bianca’s eyes narrowed, her fierce beauty twisted into a snarl. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I haven’t done anything wrong. Who sent you? Rafael? That crippled fool p>
Sarai’s head snapped toward her sister, shock rippling through her possessive features. “Jason? You… you tried to kill Jason too? Bianca, how could you? You know how much I love him! He’s mine—obsessed or not, he’s everything to me p>
Bianca shot her a venomous glare, her voice hissing like a cornered snake. “Shut up, Sarai! We’re supposed to be on the same side here. Don’t turn on me now. These thugs are bluffing. I didn’t touch your precious Jason p>
Mirabel leaned forward as much as her bonds allowed, her icy tone manipulative. “Girls, stay calm. United, we’re unbreakable. These men are nothing—hired muscle. Demand proof, Bianca p>
Charles sighed, his passive nature surfacing. “Mirabel, if this is about the family… I told you plotting against Rafael would backfire. He’s my son, damn it p>
The leader ignored them, nodding to a subordinate who wheeled in a portable screen. H’s voice in his ear: “Play the footage. Let them squirm p>
The screen flickered to life, showing grainy security footage: Eliana walking the trail, Jason creeping behind, then Bianca slinking after. The angle cut off at the blind spot, but the implication was clear. Audio overlaid: Eliana’s panicked voice from the hospital recording, relayed by Rafael—”Jason said he saw Bianca push us p>
Bianca’s face paled, but she lied through gritted teeth. “That’s not me. Could be anyone. And Jason? He’s a liar, always has been. Manipulates sympathy like a pro p>
Sarai, her envious heart shattering, lost it completely. Her voice rose in a dramatic wail, tears streaming as she thrashed against her chair. “You were supposed to kill Eliana alone, Bianca! Not Jason! How could you? He’s mine—you knew that! I trusted you, we planned this together, but you betrayed me p>
Her blurted words hung in the air like a noose, catching the men’s attention. The leader’s eyes gleamed, H’s satisfied growl echoing in their ears: “Good. Now press harder p>
The cave echoed with Sarai’s sobs, the drama unfolding in a web of betrayal that threatened to consume them all. But the interrogation was far from over.