Chapter 126- it would be over

Chapter 126: Chapter 126- it would be over Morrison carried the cake down the stairs, the box dangling heavy in his hand like a burden he hadn’t asked for. At the entrance, he froze. Bert was waiting. Of course he was. Morrison’s brows furrowed at once. He had no patience for this madman. God knew what kind of sick stunt Bert would pull next. So he did the simplest thing—he pretended not to see him, turned away, and headed for his car. But Bert was never going to let him leave. He had been waiting here on purpose, watching, calculating. Last night, Morrison’s reaction had given him all the proof he needed—Morrison cared. Exactly how much, Bert didn’t know yet. But enough. Enough to sting. Enough to make this game worth playing. Because if a man truly didn’t care, he wouldn’t drown himself in liquor after a breakup. He wouldn’t rush to the hospital at the news of her collapse. And he certainly wouldn’t be walking out of her apartment tonight clutching the cake she had baked with her own trembling hands. Bert’s eyes flicked to the box, and a cold smile curved on his lips. Perfect. Morrison cared more than even Bert had predicted. Which meant when the knife twisted, it would cut deeper. He stepped forward, blocking Morrison’s path, his smile sharp and mocking. "Boss, shouldn’t that cake stay behind? My sister made it. What’s it got to do with you now? Why take away her hard work when she’s no longer yours?" The words hit Morrison like a slap. He stopped, his jaw tight, eyes narrowing dangerously on Bert. But Bert was relentless. He tilted his head, voice dripping with false sweetness. "And another thing—shouldn’t you return the keys to her apartment? You two broke up, didn’t you? No ties left. A man still holding on to a woman’s keys... isn’t that rather inappropriate? More than that, sneaking into a place that no longer has anything to do with you, taking something from it..." He leaned closer, his smirk widening. "That sounds a lot like theft, doesn’t it?" For one wild second, Morrison wanted nothing more than to smash the cake straight into Bert’s smug face. God, this man was insane. People said the most dangerous enemy was a lunatic with a sharp mind—and Bert fit the description perfectly. Because the worst part was, his words were bulletproof. From a cold, rational standpoint, he wasn’t wrong. They had broken up. It was her apartment. He had no right to be inside. No right to take anything out with him. But hearing it—hearing Bert say it, over and over, that there was nothing between him and Lilian— It burned. Morrison’s fists clenched. He glared once, dark and heavy, then turned on his heel, choosing silence over giving Bert the satisfaction of a fight. He had barely taken two steps when Bert’s voice rang behind him, lazy and cruel. "Hello? 911? Yes, I’d like to report a burglary—" Morrison whipped around, rage exploding, storming back to snatch the phone from Bert’s hand. "Bert, have you lost your goddamn mind?!" Morrison was a man of standing in Burg Eltz, a name that carried weight wherever it was spoken. If Bert truly called the police, if the word burglary was pinned on him, that stain would follow him for life. A black mark on his reputation that no power, no influence, could ever wash away. So he had no choice. He lunged forward, fury burning through his veins, desperate to stop the madman’s hand. But Bert had been waiting for it. He slipped aside with cruel precision, and in that instant his palm lashed out—not at Morrison, but at the cake. The box tumbled. Soft sponge and delicate cream splattered against the pavement, collapsing into a ruin of sweetness and sorrow. The cake, once a fragile symbol of Lilian’s care, was now nothing but a mangled mess on the cold ground. Morrison froze. His eyes reddened, blood surging to the surface as rage coiled hot and merciless inside him. His fists clenched so hard the veins on the back of his hands stood out, thick and trembling. For the first time in his life, Morrison felt it— the savage, undeniable urge to kill. And Bert... Bert only laughed. A low, sharp laugh, the kind that cut like broken glass. "What right do you have to take this cake? What right do you have to taste it?" Gone was the calm, measured tone he had worn like a mask. Now his voice cracked with venom, his words flung like stones, each one soaked in fury and scorn. The phone call had been a ploy. The true target had always been the cake. Because Bert’s question was his verdict: Morrison had no right. No right to touch, no right to taste, not after the way he had crushed Lilian on the very night she had prepared all this for him. Better to destroy it, than to let him carry it away. The more Morrison cared, the more Bert would ruin. The more Morrison ached, the deeper Bert’s satisfaction ran. He wanted Morrison to know. To feel it. Pain. Pure, raw pain. And Morrison did. He stood there, a beast provoked, eyes blazing like a lion driven past its limit. The air around him seemed to crackle with violence, his presence so fierce it promised blood. Bert braced himself. He had wanted this fight for a long time. If Morrison struck first, then he would gladly return the blow. But Morrison never moved. For a long moment he stood, chest heaving, fury threatening to tear him apart. Then, with the sound of his own ragged breathing filling his ears, he turned. He walked away. The black Bentley roared to life, tires screeching as it tore past Bert, disappearing into the night. He hadn’t refrained because he didn’t want to fight. He hadn’t refrained because he couldn’t win. It was because the moment that cake hit the ground, shattering beyond repair, Morrison felt something inside him collapse too. All the strength drained out of him. All that was left was rage—and emptiness. Heartache. It was not just a word—it was a blade, and Morrison felt it cut deep, every breath searing with the weight of what had just been destroyed. Bert, however, did not linger. He crouched, swept the ruined cake into the trash as though it were nothing but dirt, then strode away without a backward glance. For a fleeting moment he considered taking a photo, sending it to Lilian with the lie that Morrison had thrown it himself. But he dismissed the idea. That would wound Lilian as much as it would smear Morrison, and for all his venom, Bert would not taint her heart like that. There would be other ways. Darker, subtler ways. Bert had never lacked for ruthless strategies. Meanwhile, Laurent returned after helping Lilian pack. Lilian had chosen to stay with Tiffany until her departure—too tired to move anywhere else, and determined to spend her last few days with her parents before leaving the country behind. Laurent carried the luggage into her bedroom. Lilian was sitting on the edge of the bed, lost in a haze of thought. The moment she saw Laurent, she forced a smile, masking the emptiness in her eyes, and stood to take the clothes from her. "Thank you, Laurent." Laurent hesitated, then spoke. "I saw... Morrison. At your apartment." For a moment, Lilian stilled. Then only a quiet, indifferent oh slipped from her lips as she turned away, calmly placing her clothes into the wardrobe as though nothing had been said. No tears, no tremor in her voice. Nothing. Laurent’s chest tightened. She had wanted to say more, to tell Lilian that Morrison had been there, that he had cared, that perhaps regret still burned inside him. But faced with Lilian’s composure—so brittle, so fragile—she swallowed the words. Enough. For now, silence was better. They both needed time apart. Lilian’s heart was wounded too deeply; Morrison’s, too tangled. Let them cool in separation. If fate still bound them together, they would find each other again. If not—then let it end in quiet severance. Later that evening, Dave made the call. Using his identity as Lilian’s elder brother, he informed her financial manager that she would be resigning due to health reasons. On the other end, the manager’s tone faltered with hesitation. "Lord Washington, I understand, but resignation isn’t something I can approve alone. The HR department needs to process it, and final approval must come from the top." He paused, then added carefully, "Since you’re a friend of our boss, perhaps it would be easier if you reached out to him directly. That way, the procedures could be bypassed." Dave’s voice was cold as steel. "I am informing you. File it according to your protocol. That’s all." He ended the call without another word. The last thing he would do was call Morrison. Right now, Dave wanted nothing more than to tear the man apart limb by limb. Yet within the hour, the manager called back, sounding strained. "Our boss has agreed to the resignation, but he insists Miss Washington complete the handover process herself. Without that, the matter cannot be formally closed." A thin, bitter smile touched Dave’s lips. So. This was Morrison’s move—delaying, grasping for a chance to pull Lilian back into his reach. Dave’s reply was merciless. "Tell your boss this: consider the contract terminated unilaterally. Any losses your company suffers, we will cover. That is final." And with that, he hung up. He would not allow Morrison another step closer. Not while Lilian still bore the scars of his betrayal. And Lilian herself—she wanted no contact. Already, Dave was moving heaven and earth to finalize her departure. With the strings he was pulling, at most three to five days—perhaps as few as two—Lilian would be on a plane. And once she boarded, it would be over. For her, for Morrison—for them all.