Chapter 46

Hannah stood at the doorway, her nails digging deep into her palms. Her father's twisted face loomed inches away, the stench of cheap tobacco clinging to him.

"Get inside!" Richard raised his hand to strike.

Evelyn stepped between them, her stilettos clicking sharply against the floor. In one fluid motion, she seized his wrist and twisted it backward.

A bloodcurdling scream echoed through the hallway.

Hannah's pupils contracted. She'd never seen anyone overpower her father so effortlessly.

"Come inside, Hannah." Evelyn's voice was soft, but her eyes were glacial.

The door shut with a quiet click, followed by a heavy thud outside. Hannah pressed her ear to the wood, hearing her father's whimpering pleas.

"Lay a finger on her again," Evelyn said with chilling amusement, "and I'll mail your gambling IOUs directly to the loan sharks."

The apartment fell into suffocating silence.

When Richard slunk back inside, his face was plastered with an obsequious grin. He hunched over, offering a fruit platter with both hands. "Sweetheart, have...have some fruit..."

Hannah stared at the bruise blooming on his jawline, struck by the absurdity of it all.

"Is he possessed?" she whispered to Evelyn.

The designer wiped her hands with a sanitizing wipe, lips quirking. "Perhaps a sudden surge of paternal affection."

Meanwhile, on the 23rd floor of KL Group, a shrill wail pierced the air.

"Uncle!" Jessica slammed her resignation letter on the coffee table. "How dare that bitch fire me!"

Marcus stared at the signature—Alexander Roland—and felt cold sweat bead on his temple.

"Of all people, you had to provoke Mr. Roland's favorite..." He smashed his fist on the desk. "Go clear your desk at payroll. Now."

Jessica's mascara streaked down her cheeks. She remembered the way Evelyn had looked at her that morning—like she was something beneath notice.

"I won't accept this!" Her nails gouged the leather sofa. "That Hannah is nothing!"

Marcus leaned in, voice dropping to a whisper. "Rumor has it Hannah is Evelyn's—"

The intercom buzzed. The HR director's icy tone crackled through: "Mr. Macmillan. My office. Immediately."

Watching her uncle's face drain of color, Jessica finally understood—she'd messed with the wrong people.