Chapter 214
Darren’s eyes burned crimson, thin red veins spiderwebbing across the whites. Yet his voice remained terrifyingly composed—too steady for a man standing on the razor’s edge.
“Don’t fret, Miss Kensington.” A slow, deliberate smile curled his lips. “All I require is a hundred thousand in cash. Surely that’s pocket change for someone of your… standing.”
Of course, the money was just a ruse. What he truly wanted was her in front of him—vulnerable, exposed.
“Meet me at the third alley off 1st Avenue. You have three hours.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “Fail to deliver, and those recordings go straight to Isabella and Alexander. Choose wisely.”
Sophia’s grip on her phone turned bone-white, her face twisting into something feral. “Have you lost your mind? A hundred thousand—in cash? Do you think I can just—” The line died before she could finish.
With a snarl, she hurled her phone across the room, the screen shattering against the wall. “That psychotic worm!” she hissed, pacing like a caged animal. She should’ve cut ties with him months ago. But regrets were useless now.
Those recordings couldn’t surface. If they reached Isabella—or God forbid, Alexander—her carefully constructed world would crumble. Eleanor would cast her out of the Blackwood estate without hesitation.
Gritting her teeth, Sophia moved swiftly. She emptied safe deposit boxes, liquidated assets, stuffing crisp bills into a nondescript duffel bag. Dark sunglasses shielded her eyes as she slipped into the alley—a blind spot, devoid of cameras.
There he stood, hunched and unkempt, his grin widening as she approached.
“Take it,” she spat, thrusting the bag at him. “Now hand over the recordings and disappear. If I so much as hear your name again, you’ll wish you’d never been born.”
Darren chuckled, the sound like gravel. “So eager to be rid of me?” He stepped closer, his shadow swallowing hers. “Fine. The recordings are yours.”
Too easy.
Sophia didn’t see it coming—the damp cloth pressed brutally over her mouth and nose. Chloroform burned her lungs.
“People like you,” Darren murmured, watching her pupils dilate with terror, “always think you’re untouchable.” His grip tightened as she clawed at his wrists. “Let’s fix that.”
Darkness swallowed her.
Consciousness returned in fragments. Cold concrete bit into her cheek. The stench of rust and mildew choked the air. An abandoned factory.
And Darren—leaning against a rusted beam, a knife glinting in his palm.
Panic surged. She had to play this right.
“Darren, please—” Her voice cracked. “We’re partners, remember? I’ve held up my end! This is Isabella’s fault—she ruined everything! If you want revenge, she’s the one you should—”
The blade flickered in the dim light. A whimper escaped her.
“I—I gave you her address! The villa near Muisvedo! Name your price—money, influence, anything!” Tears streaked her face. “Just let me go!”
Darren studied her—the trembling, the desperation—and laughed. The sound was hollow, devoid of warmth.
“Oh, Sophia.” He crouched, tilting her chin up with the knife’s edge. “Did you really think this would end with money?”
Her breath hitched.
“No, no, no—wait! I can give you more! I swear—”
The door slammed shut with a deafening finality. The lock clicked.
Bound and helpless, Sophia could only listen as his footsteps faded, his parting words slithering into her ears like poison:
“Enjoy the show.”
Despair crashed over her. This wasn’t just about blackmail.
Darren wasn’t leaving survivors.
And she’d just handed him everything he needed to burn them all to the ground.
