Chapter 983:

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A slow, chilling smile of his own touched his lips. “I don’t think I’ll be drinking anything in this house, Eleonora.”

Her heart gave a single, hard jolt, but her expression remained one of polite confusion. “Don’t be silly, Silas. What are you afraid of?” To prove her point, she took a delicate sip from her own glass.

It didn’t work. Silas leaned forward, his large frame casting a shadow over her. The sheer force of his presence was a physical weight.

“Don’t think for a second,” he said, his voice a low, brutal growl, “that what you did to Genevieve will stay buried forever.”

At the mention of the name, Eleonora’s pupils contracted. It was a flicker, a micro-expression of guilt and fear, but Silas saw it. It was all the confirmation he needed.

His hand shot out, not to take the glass, but to slap it from her grasp.

The heavy tumbler fell to the thick Persian rug with a muffled thud. The poisoned whiskey soaked into the expensive wool, disappearing almost instantly.

Eleonora gasped and stumbled back, her face a mask of shock and fury. Her plan had failed.

Silas looked down at her, his face a grim mask. “I’m going to take everything from you,” he promised, his voice cold and final. “I will see you rot in a prison cell for what you did to my daughter.”

He turned his back on her and strode toward the door. Van Doren security moved to block his path, but Silas’s own team materialized, weapons drawn. A tense, silent standoff filled the grand foyer.

Eleonora, standing over the dark, damp spot on her priceless rug, made a split-second calculation. A shootout in her home would bring the FBI, the media, a level of scrutiny she could not afford.

𝗥𝘦𝗮𝗱 𝗼n aոу 𝗱е𝘷𝗶𝘤𝗲 o𝗻 𝗀𝘢lոо𝘷e𝘭s.c𝘰𝘮

“Let him go,” she snapped, her voice tight with rage.

The guards parted. Silas didn’t look back. He walked out of the mansion, a king leaving a conquered territory.

The moment the massive front door slammed shut, Eleonora’s carefully constructed composure shattered. She let out a scream of pure, animalistic fury and hurled her own glass against the wall. Crystal fragments rained down on the marble floor.

Her phone rang, the shrill sound cutting through her rage. It was Donovan’s chief of staff.

“Mrs. Van Doren,” the man said, his voice tight with an urgency she didn’t understand. “Mr. Van Doren has just ordered a full, top-priority investigation into a woman he met at the hospital. A woman named Cailin Morton.”

The world fell out from under Eleonora’s feet.

Donovan had met her. He was investigating her.

She closed her eyes, a wave of cold, absolute terror washing over her. The bomb she had spent more than two decades trying to defuse was not only active, its timer had just hit zero.

Eleonora’s fingers tightened on the phone until her knuckles were white. She forced herself to breathe, to think through the blinding panic.

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