Chapter 32

Evadne popped the last bite of chocolate into her mouth, then with a playful grin, shoved the remaining half into Jason's front pocket. Her fingers lingered against his chest, tracing the firm outline of muscle beneath his shirt. "Mmm. Not bad at all."

Jason's pulse spiked. Heat rushed to his cheeks, and he ducked his head, suddenly self-conscious. At twenty-four, he was four years older than Evadne, but around her, he still felt like that awkward teenager who'd first met her in the sprawling gardens of Silveke Harbor.

Back then, he'd been trailing behind his father, the esteemed legal advisor to the Ashbourne family, when a flash of movement caught his eye. A girl in a flowing sundress glided toward him on a skateboard, sunlight catching in her hair like spun gold.

He'd blinked, certain he was imagining things—until she stopped right in front of him.

"Hey. Got any candy?" She hopped off the board, flipping it up into her hand with effortless grace.

Jason had stammered, caught off guard.

"No? Oh well." She sighed dramatically, already turning away—but he'd grabbed her wrist before he could think. Her arm was so slender, his fingers nearly circled it completely.

"Wait." He fumbled in his pocket and pulled out a chocolate bar. "Will this do?"

Her face lit up. "Perfect!" She snatched it, tore open the wrapper, and took a huge bite, eyes closing in bliss.

From that day on, Jason never visited the Ashbournes without pockets full of sweets. Even now, if Evadne wanted candy, he'd make sure she got it.

The press conference was a pressure cooker. Ives Stirling, sweating under the glare of cameras, jabbed a finger at the reporter who'd just challenged him. "For the last time—our products are flawless. I stake my reputation on it."

"And yet K Orld Hotel just recalled every Stirling mattress in their inventory." The journalist didn't back down. "If there's no issue, why the sudden move? The public deserves answers."

The live feed exploded with comments:

"His 'reputation'? That's worth less than a used tissue."

"Returning my Stirling sheets ASAP. Dude gives me slimy used-car-salesman vibes."

Ives' jaw tightened. Then, with a theatrical sigh, he straightened. "Fine. You want the truth? Here it is." His voice dropped, oozing false regret. "I admit—I failed to oversee every store in our nationwide chain. Some employees exploited that, cutting corners for personal profit. We terminated them immediately. But ask yourselves—why would K Group's Deputy GM Keith collaborate with them? Why is K Group pinning everything on us now?"

Gasps rippled through the room.

Gordon, watching from the sidelines, muttered, "Unbelievable. He's actually blaming the Ashbournes?"

Ives signaled his team. "Display Exhibit A."

The screen lit up with photos—Keith meeting covertly with Stirling's regional manager, bank transfers labeled "Kickback."

"Proof that Keith orchestrated this scam," Ives declared. "Stirling is the victim here. K Group threw us under the bus to cover their own corruption. We will sue for defamation!"

He was practically vibrating with triumph. That Ashbourne heiress probably thought she'd outmaneuvered him. Joke's on her—he'd been preparing this counterstrike for months. Keith was always meant to take the fall.

Online sentiment began shifting, critics accusing the Ashbournes of corporate bullying.

Then—

A screech of feedback blasted through the speakers.

Two voices filled the room:

"Ives, I swapped those mattresses for you! Now that Ashbourne witch found out, I'm ruined!"

"Relax. Between your cut and my bonus, you're set for life. Just keep your mouth shut—or you'll regret it."

Every head swiveled toward Ives. His face drained of color.

"Who played that? SHUT IT OFF!"

The audio cut—but the screen now showed security footage: Ives and Keith clinking champagne glasses at a nightclub, exchanging envelopes.

Smoking-gun evidence.

Reporters surged forward, shouting questions. Ives flailed, bellowing, "Deepfakes! This is a setup!"

Then—

BANG.

The doors flew open.

A squadron of federal agents marched in, badges glinting. At their head strode Arnold, his expression granite.

"Ives Stirling, you're under arrest for bribery, fraud, and conspiracy."

"No! You can't—"

Two agents seized him mid-protest, dragging him out as cameras flashed. The livestream went nuclear:

"HOLY PLOT TWIST."

"That prosecutor is FINE. Justice never looked so good."

Gordon whooped. "Now that's what I call timing!"

Beside him, Thaddeus didn't react. "Calculated," he said coolly.

"Huh?"

"The Ashbournes baited Ives into blaming Keith, then dropped the evidence bomb. That 'reporter' was probably theirs too."

Thaddeus' gaze locked onto Arnold's face on-screen. Recognition flared.

Him.

The man from the bar. The hospital. The one who looked so much like Cassius.

Thaddeus screenshot the feed and fed it into his facial-recognition software.

Ten minutes later, the result pinged:

Arnold Whitmore. Lead Prosecutor, Elmsworth District Attorney's Office.