Chapter 295

A few yards away, Mr. Pembroke knelt on the polished marble, his body shaking violently like a fragile branch in a storm. Beads of sweat rolled down his flushed face as he stammered, "M-Mr. Montclair, I—"

Julian didn’t spare him a glance, his icy focus locked on the sleek pistol in his hand. With a soft, deliberate click, he disengaged the safety. His voice was eerily calm, yet laced with lethal precision. "Did I not make myself perfectly clear the last time we spoke?"

Terror flashed in Mr. Pembroke’s wide eyes, and he scrambled for words. "M-Mr. Montclair, it wasn’t my doing! My men—those fools—they assumed you had feelings for Ms. Hartley, so they—they slipped her a sedative. I never imagined someone else would take her place—"

Julian’s glacial gaze finally shifted to him, freezing the man mid-sentence. "So, in your twisted logic, affection justifies drugging someone?" His tone dripped with disgust. "Do I strike you as that pathetic?"

"N-No, never!" Mr. Pembroke’s voice cracked under the weight of fear. "I—I’ll deal with those idiots myself. Please, Mr. Montclair, spare me—"

"Montclair, I swear!"

Julian remained silent, his fingers lazily spinning the pistol. Mr. Pembroke watched, desperate for any sign of mercy, but Julian’s expression was unreadable. Panic clawed at him, and with a choked sob, he struck himself hard across the face.

Still, Julian toyed with the gun, his indifference more terrifying than any outburst. Desperate, Mr. Pembroke hit himself again—harder, faster. The sickening sound of flesh striking flesh echoed through the grand hall. Blood trickled from his split lips, his face swelling grotesquely.

After what felt like an eternity—his features now a distorted mess—Julian finally stood. With a dismissive flick of his wrist, he tossed the pistol to an attendant. "This model is worthless. Find a better supplier," he remarked coolly.

The model?

Mr. Pembroke’s eyes bulged in disbelief. The gun was a fake?

Relief surged through him, his breath escaping in a shuddering exhale. But before he could savor the moment, Julian’s voice sliced through the air like a blade. "Send him to that place," he commanded, hands sliding into his pockets. "He’s banned from Northshire. And find a competent buyer for Crystalpeak Hot Springs—then liquidate it. The property no longer serves a purpose."

Mr. Pembroke’s blood ran cold.

That place.

The mere whisper of it was enough to paralyze anyone. A lawless, merciless abyss—once you entered, you never left.

"Mr. Montclair, I beg you! One more chance!" he wailed, his voice raw and broken, blood dripping from his battered lips.

But Julian didn’t even glance his way. The mercenaries—towering, stone-faced men radiating silent menace—hauled Mr. Pembroke away, ignoring his screams and thrashing.

The cemetery was hushed, the air heavy with grief and whispered farewells. Vivian stood motionless before Catherine’s grave, her gaze distant. After a long, silent moment, she murmured a quiet goodbye and turned away without another word.

Outside the iron gates, Audrey was furiously swiping through her phone, her frustration palpable. "I’ve refreshed this app fifty times, and there’s still no ride to Crestwood from this godforsaken place," she groaned.

Vivian, already anticipating the struggle, replied calmly, "If there’s no car, we’ll take the bus."

Audrey let out an exaggerated sigh, her nose wrinkling in distaste. "A bus? With the delightful aroma of sweat, desperation, and questionable life choices? I’d rather face Dominic Sinclair again. At least then I wouldn’t have to endure this."