Chapter 120: If I die he is coming down to hell with me

Chapter 120: If I die he is coming down to hell with me "Arlo, have you lost your mind?" Tiffany’s face was deathly pale, her expression a mix of shock and desperation. "Stop it right now!" As she spoke, she struggled to sit up from the hospital bed. "If you dare lay a finger on Camilla, I swear I’ll make you pay for it!" Camilla had been on guard against Arlo all along. Before he could make his move, she had already taken several cautious steps back. Arlo’s slap met nothing but air. "You think you can dodge me?" Blinded by rage and humiliation, his face twisted into a vicious snarl as he lunged forward again. "Let’s see you try!" Camilla stood her ground, her icy gaze boring into Arlo with bone-chilling intensity. "Luke—" Luke had been waiting outside the door. The moment he heard Camilla’s call, he burst into the room. Arlo’s outstretched fist was instantly caught in a vice-like grip. A brutal kick to his legs sent him crashing to his knees. "Ah—!" The searing pain shooting through his wrist and knees wrenched a scream from Arlo, his face contorted in agony. "Let me go!" he snarled, his expression twisted with fury. "If you don’t release me right now, I’ll call the police! You’ll all regret this!" Luke remained stone-faced, utterly indifferent to his threats. "Luke, call the police," Camilla said coldly, her gaze fixed on Arlo without a flicker of emotion. "Tell them there’s a troublemaker causing a scene at the hospital." "Troublemaker?" Arlo glared at her, his face dark with rage. "Camilla, you think this hospital belongs to you?" "Actually," she replied coolly, "it does." Camilla’s voice was icy and devoid of any emotion. "You’ll find out when you get to the police station." With that, she turned away and walked toward Tiffany’s hospital bed without another glance at Arlo. "Luke, take him outside and wait for the police." "Got it!" Luke swiftly twisted Arlo’s wrist, pinning him in place before dragging him out with practiced efficiency. Realizing they meant business, Arlo’s panic began to rise. "Tiffany, are you really going to let Camilla treat me like this?" Before Tiffany could respond, he was already hauled out of the room. "Fanny..." Camilla gently steadied Tiffany, who was struggling to get out of bed, and helped her lie back down, her tone softening. "Are your legs okay?" Tiffany shook her head, her gaze lingering on the door with a troubled expression. After a long pause, she finally spoke in a quiet voice. "Camilla, he..." "Don’t worry," Camilla said softly, already knowing what Tiffany wanted to say. "I’m just giving him a little lesson—nothing too serious." "Camilla, I just realized today... Arlo has really changed so much." Tiffany nodded, withdrawing her gaze as she lowered her voice. "Or maybe... I feel like I never truly understood him in the first place." The Arlo she remembered, though prone to angry outbursts where he’d lose control and throw things, had mostly been gentle. But now, with his mouth full of lies and that twisted expression when caught in them—it all felt so unfamiliar. "Fanny.." Camilla’s heart ached at the sight of her friend. "It’s never too late to see someone for who they really are." She squeezed Tiffany’s hand reassuringly. "Right now, you’re apart anyway. You have all the time you need to figure him out—and I’ll help you." That threat to Fanny’s life, Arlo—she would eliminate him without fail. But first, she had to make sure Fanny’s heart was completely free of him. Today was just the beginning—she would expose this man’s true despicable nature for all to see. "Camilla, you’re right," Tiffany said after a long silence, her voice soft but resolute. "I’ll use this time to really get to know him again, to see if he’s still the Arlo I once loved." She exhaled slowly. "As for getting back together... that’s off the table for now." —— Meanwhile. The Luther Family Manor. A dim, damp basement. *Crack!* *Crack!* The sharp sound of lashes cut through the air, punctuated by a man’s stifled groans. The scent of blood hung thick in the stale darkness. *Crack!* *Crack!* Ramsey wielded the whip with brutal force, each lash splitting open Micheal’s skin, leaving behind angry crimson welts. Micheal’s entire body tensed like a drawn bowstring, his fists clenched so tightly that veins bulged across his knuckles—a visible testament to his excruciating endurance. Yet through gritted teeth, he grinned up at Ramsey, his expression a grotesque fusion of defiance and madness. "Ramsey," he rasped, his voice shredded into a raw whisper as if clawed from the depths of his throat. "I looked after you for Uncle Carlos when you were just a kid. Is this how you repay old kindness?" Ramsey paused mid-swing, his frost-laden gaze pinning Micheal like a dagger. "If we’re dredging up the past," he countered icily, "perhaps you should reflect on how Grandpa Luther and boss Sinclair treated *you*." He twisted the whip in his grip. "Did you spare a thought for loyalty when you schemed against the Chairman with your filthy tricks?" "Schemed?" Micheal’s smirk faltered, his pallid face a ghostly canvas streaked with blood. "I merely wanted Sinclair to accept my feelings. Actions born of love—how could that be called scheming?" "Pretty words," Ramsey sneered, his bloodstained whip pointing at Uncle Joe, who was tied to a chair and forced to witness the torture. "If this man claimed to love you, drugged your food, then took advantage of you while you were helpless," he said, his voice low and razor-sharp. "Would you still call that anything but a scheme?" Uncle Joe’s eyes widened in horror as he frantically shook his head at Micheal. Ramsey’s words painted a vivid, sickening image in Micheal’s mind. His face darkened completely, a wave of nausea rising in his gut. His bloodshot eyes burned with fury. "That’s not the same! Stop twisting things!" "I simply recreated what? you did. How is it any different?" Ramsey’s piercing gaze locked onto Micheal, his lips curling in undisguised mockery. "What’s wrong? Can’t stomach it when the tables are turned?" "Ramsey." Micheal stared at him with a gaze twisted by madness, his voice dripping with venom. "Sinclair has trained you well over the years." "None of your business," Ramsey tossed aside the ordinary whip in his hand and picked up a rawhide one soaked in brine. "Last chance," he growled, his voice dripping with menace. "Where’s the nurse who took care of Madam back then?" "I’ve told you," Micheal was drenched in cold sweat, his body weak, but his tone remained unyielding. "The nurse’s whereabouts—I’ll only reveal them to Camilla." His bloodshot eyes locked onto Ramsey’s as the corner of his lips curled into a smirk. "If she wants the answer, she’ll have to come see me herself." Still playing tough? This guy’s got a spine of steel. "Madam doesn’t have time for you," Ramsey snapped, his expression darkening. "Since you refuse to talk, you leave me no choice." His gaze flicked toward the mercenary standing nearby. "Pour the entire bucket of concentrated brine on him." "Yes!" A mercenary lifted a bucket brimming with saltwater and strode toward Michael. "Mmmph... mmmph—!" The man’s body was already crisscrossed with wounds. The searing agony of saltwater would be unbearable, worse than death itself. Uncle Joe’s eyes bulged in horror, his head shaking frantically in a futile attempt to stop the mercenary. Desperation twisted his face as he turned to Michael, silently pleading for him to reveal the secret—anything to make Ramsey and his men halt this torture. But Michael remained eerily composed, his icy gaze locked onto Ramsey as if calculating something in the depths of his mind. * *Splash— The moment the saltwater drenched his wounds, a bone-deep, searing pain exploded through every fiber of Michael’s being. "**AAARGH!**" Even his legendary endurance shattered. A guttural scream tore from his throat as veins bulged grotesquely beneath his skin, writhing like monstrous earthworms. The metallic stench of blood thickened the air, choking the room with its oppressive weight. **Boss!!** Uncle Joe’s heart lurched violently, his own face contorting in sympathetic agony. The agonized wails continued for over ten minutes. Ramsey watched coldly, silently hoping Micheal would change his mind. Only by extracting useful information could he justify his act of defiance. "You dare kill me because of Sinclair, don’t you?" Micheal’s eyes were bloodshot, his expression twisted like a demon’s as he glared at Ramsey. "He doesn’t want that woman to see me, so he ordered you to kill me outright?" Ramsey’s brow remained icy, offering no reply. "Hahaha—" Micheal took Ramsey’s silence as confirmation, his lips stretching into a sick, grotesque smile. "Just one meeting—that’s all. Is he afraid I’ll harm her? Or that I’ll taint her precious eyes?" His face contorted further, a low, terrifying chuckle bubbling from his throat. "Who would’ve thought Sinclair loves her so much? Enough to forsake the truth about his own mother’s death. Truly... unexpected." Ramsey studied Micheal’s escalating madness, an uneasy feeling creeping into his gut. "President Luther does love his wife deeply—that much is undeniable," he cut in sharply, his voice like frost. "As for the maid’s whereabouts and the truth behind the late madam’s death, even if you don’t talk, we’ll uncover it sooner or later." No sooner had the words left his lips than he lashed out at Micheal with a vicious whip crack. *CRACK!* The leather whip struck Micheal with brutal force, carving yet another deep, bleeding gash into his already scar-riddled body. Crimson blood welled up and trickled down his battered skin. "Ugh—" Micheal let out a low, guttural growl, his entire body tensing violently as tremors wracked his frame. "Ramsey, put some real effort into it—better yet, just kill me quickly," he snarled, his bloodshot eyes bulging with near-manic intensity. A deranged, almost apocalyptic fury radiated from him. "What does it matter how much Sinclair loved that woman? His life is bound to mine now—ha ha ha!" His voice was a ragged, shredded thing, as if forcibly torn from the depths of hell itself. "If I die, he’s coming down to hell with me." At those words, Ramsey hesitated, his hand stilling mid-motion.