NovelNext Chapter 8
Chapter 8
My hands trembled slightly as I tightened my grip on the iron rod, staring at Old Master Cooper kneeling before me.
The once-mighty titan of the business world now hunched low, his cloudy tears carving deep lines down his weathered face.
"Sophia, I beg you..." His shaky voice cut through the air like a dull knife, dragging painfully across my heart.
Behind me, Vincent Cooper caught my swaying body, his steady hand warm and firm against my back.
"What are you all standing around for?" he barked. "Get the old man out of here."
The bodyguards snapped out of their stupor and rushed forward.
As they led Old Master Cooper away, he kept glancing back at me—his gaze hauntingly similar to the day five years ago when he had personally clasped the family's heirloom jade bracelet around my wrist.
"I'll handle it," Vincent said, taking the iron rod from my hands. His grip was so tight his knuckles turned white.
He turned, eyes cold, toward Justin and Emily Cooper, who lay bound and broken on the marble floor.
The sharp click of his dress shoes echoed through the vast hall, each step heavy with finality.
Justin thrashed wildly against the ropes cutting into his flesh, blood seeping through.
"Uncle Vincent! Grandpa just had heart surgery—you're really gonna kill me in front of everyone?" he screamed.
The iron rod whistled through the air in a vicious arc—
—but I caught it just in time.
Vincent turned, the fury still burning hot in his eyes.
"Let them live," I said quietly, one hand brushing over my abdomen, remembering the life that had once grown there.
"Death is too easy. Let them live every single day drowning in regret."
The bodyguards carried out my orders without hesitation.
Justin's right leg twisted at a grotesque angle, and Emily's screams shattered the night.
Later, I stood before a tiny gravestone, the autumn wind swirling dead leaves around my feet.
"Come back to me next time, healthy and strong," I whispered, my voice swallowed by the wind.
Three years later, when the pregnancy test flashed two bright red lines, Vincent was so stunned he knocked over his coffee.
That very night, he transformed the master bedroom into a sterile sanctuary, installing bulletproof windows and top-of-the-line security systems.
During my third trimester, I laughed at his paranoia—until I found him one midnight, kneeling in the empty nursery, murmuring to the air.
On the day of delivery, Vincent smashed three cell phones pacing outside the operating room.
When the baby's first cries finally echoed through the hallway, the man who once ruled the business world like a king collapsed to the floor, sobbing.
The sun was blinding on the day of our baby's 100-day celebration.
I stepped out of the car, my child wrapped in silk and blessings—
—and from behind the fountain, a shadow stumbled forward.
The bodyguards moved instantly, forming a wall of protection around us.
Through the gap, I saw him—Justin.
A wreck of a man, limping, ragged, his left eye gone, his face half-eaten away by festering wounds.
"Aunt Sophia..." he croaked, reaching out with mangled fingers. "Please... let me touch the baby..."
Vincent shielded me without hesitation.
Later, we heard Justin died alone, curled up in a leaky attic in the slums. Beside him was a yellowed old photograph—an image of the Cooper estate back in its glory days.
That night, after putting the baby to sleep, I found Vincent standing alone on the balcony, a cigarette burning between his fingers.
Moonlight stretched his shadow long and thin across the floor, like a scar that time could never heal.