Chapter 182

Andrew Lucas's pupils constricted violently.

His gaze locked onto the streak of blood at the corner of Susan's pale lips, his heart gripped by an invisible fist.

"Susan!" He shot up from his chair, the legs scraping against the floor with a piercing screech.

Susan clutched her stomach, too weak to speak. She mechanically wiped her mouth, her eyes terrifyingly hollow.

Andrew seized her wrist. "What the hell is wrong with you?!"

"Let go." Her voice was feather-light. "Just a stomachache."

His knuckles turned white. Memories of her mentioning stomach cancer—and all her supposed "lies"—churned in his chest, a storm of unnameable emotions.

"Eat." The command was brittle as he shoved a bowl of sweet corn porridge toward her.

Susan stared at the mush and suddenly laughed. How ironic—the man she once loved most now didn't even believe she was sick.

She forced down each spoonful, swallowing shards of glass.

Andrew watched her obedient movements, his expression softening despite himself. He even took an uncharacteristic sip of the sickly-sweet porridge—disgusting, yet watching her eat it made it almost tolerable.

By the time afternoon light sliced through the curtains, Andrew was gone.

Susan stood under the shower, water sluicing over her skin, but no amount of scrubbing could erase the filth embedded in her bones.

Patrick Pope's call came at the perfect moment.

"Contract's signed. Ten million for the endorsement." His tone was strictly professional. "Mr. Grant's personal request."

Susan's fingers trembled over the string of zeros on the contract. Enough to pay off a fraction of her debts.

She texted Andrew: [Send me your account number.]

An immediate reply: [?]

[Paying you back.]

Her phone buzzed—Andrew was calling. "Susan, where'd you get that kind of money?"

"Endorsement fee. For King's Glory."

Silence. Then a cold laugh. "Alexander Grant's money? How generous."

The line went dead before she could respond.

Susan stared at the darkened screen, lips twisting. Counting the digits in her account balance, she felt something unfamiliar—hope.

The private detective called at dusk.

"Ms. Thompson, target's at Golden Splendor." A hushed voice. "Room 308."

From the depths of a drawer, Susan retrieved a pinhole camera, her smile sharp as ice.

Nicole Capra, your turn.