Scarlett POV:
"Mr. Grey, how do you know Jason?" I asked, trying to push the thought out of my mind.
"How did you know him?" he responded instead. His question was sharp, but I could feel the underlying tension.
I frowned. Does he have a problem with just answering a simple question?
"We were friends since college," I replied, keeping my voice steady.
"Is that so?" His tone was flat, almost indifferent.
Gosh, this guy is something else—so mysterious. What the heck is he thinking now?
I hesitated, then pressed on. "Mr. Grey, is there something you want me to know?"
He turned slightly, his cold eyes narrowing as he met my gaze.
"If you put it like that, no," he said.
My jaw dropped at the casual dismissal. I cleared my throat, trying to regain control of the situation.
"Is there something connected to Jason about my father's murder I need to know?" I asked.
He didn't answer immediately. Instead, he walked over to the couch, spreading his legs comfortably, settling into the plush cushions.
What the hell? Is he seriously ignoring me right now?
Silence hung heavy between us, thick and uncomfortable. I kept staring at him, hoping for some sort of response, but nothing came.
Finally, he cleared his throat and spoke, his voice detached. "Tell me what happened inside the room when your dad died. I've gathered other information, but the details inside the room—you're the only eyewitness."
I felt a cold wave of dread wash over me. The room... that place. A place I never want to see again, never want to remember. It holds too many terrible memories.
"It was my birthday," I started, my voice wavering. "Mom never celebrates it. Never has. But Dad always tried to make time for me, to make it special…"
I paused, but he interrupted, impatience creeping into his voice.
"Cut the crap and get to the point."
I flinched at his harshness, but I pressed on, trying to steady myself.
"It was my sweet sixteen," I continued, "and Dad had a surprise for me. He blindfolded me and led me upstairs, telling me to wait for his signal. I waited but got none, so I got impatient. I took off the blindfold. And then..." My voice caught in my throat, and I felt the weight of those memories crashing over me.
Tears rushed to my eyes, and I buried my face in my palms.
"Wipe those tears and continue," Mr. Grey's voice cut through the silence, cold and unfeeling.
I could barely hold myself together. How could he be so heartless, especially now, when I'm remembering the worst day of my life?
The day a very special somebody was taken away from me.
Still, I wiped my eyes, my hands trembling as I continued, my voice barely above a whisper.
"There was blood everywhere, and my... my dad was lying in the middle of it." I fought to hold back the tears, but they kept coming. "I ran to him, shaking, calling his name, but he didn't answer. Then I saw it—close to him, a gun. I thought... I thought he had committed suicide. I felt so guilty, like I had caused him to do it. I wanted to die too." My voice broke. "I picked up the gun. Before I knew it, the door slammed open, and the cops rushed in. In my panic, I dropped the gun, and I ran to the commander, begging him to save my dad, but... he just pushed me away. They arrested me."
I sniffed, the tears falling freely now.
"It turned out to be a murder. All the footage was wiped—nothing of him leading me to the room, nothing of me being blindfolded. Everything... every piece of evidence pointed to me." I swallowed, my throat tight with emotion. "And the worst part? The gun had only my fingerprints on it."
Mr. Grey cursed under his breath, rubbing the skin between his brows as if the whole thing was a mere inconvenience to him.
He looked calm, but I could sense the unease bubbling just below the surface.
"And let me guess," he said, his voice chilling. "It was also only your fingerprints on your father's body."
I swallowed hard, the lump in my throat making it impossible to speak for a moment. Finally, I nodded.
"Yes."
His eyes snapped open, and the intensity of his gaze made me recoil. I instinctively moved back, but I couldn't look away.
"Gosh, you're such a dumbass," he muttered, clearly irritated. "This is why I call you 'pony'—because not only do you look like one, but you also think and act like one." He glared at me, clearly annoyed. "Why the hell did I even agree to help you when you just walked right into their trap?"
His words hit me like a slap to the face. I felt small, stupid, and utterly lost.
Quietly, I crawled over to him, my legs suddenly weak beneath me. I placed my hands on his knee, desperation in my eyes.
"Sir, please don't give up on me," I pleaded, my voice breaking. "I really need your help."
But he didn't even look at me. He violently pushed my hands away, and I stumbled backward, crashing to the ground. Pain shot through my chest as if my heart had been stabbed.
"Don't you know that in a murder scene, you're not supposed to touch anything?" His voice was almost calm, but there was an edge to it. His eyes told a different story, full of judgment. "If it wasn't for the fact that I know how much of a dumbass you are, I might have believed you murdered him."
I sat there on the floor, too stunned to move, as he sighed, finally sitting back on the couch.
"But that's not why I called you here," he continued, his tone shifting back to that cold, businesslike indifference. "The real question is why. Why was he murdered?"
I took a deep breath, trying to compose myself. This was the question that had been gnawing at me for so long.
"Did your dad have any rivals?" he asked.
"Yeah, as a businessman…" I started, but he cut me off.
"I don't care about business rivals," he snapped. "I mean, personal rivals."
I blinked, then nodded. "No. No personal rivals."
"Gosh, you really are a lost cause," he said, his voice dripping with mockery.
I bent my head in shame. He was right. I'd messed up—so badly. If only I hadn't been so naïve, if only I hadn't been so ignorant, maybe none of this would have happened. I could have been free, living my life, never even crossing paths with someone like Mr. Grey.
He suddenly stood up, heading for the door. I raised a hand to stop him, but it was too late—he was already opening it.
"Me and your dad had a business deal before he died. I'm sure you know about it." He paused, his voice low and calculating. "Your so-called ex is planning on resigning that deal with me."
My heart pounded in my chest, the words sinking in slowly.
"Come up with a plan," he continued, his gaze sharp and unwavering. "A plan that suits my taste and my status. If it's good enough, I'll sign the deal and get closer to him. I'll help you with your revenge... if you like." He tilted his head, his lips curling slightly. " draft a plan about offering gifts and telling fairy tales, I'll drop your revenge and make you pay for wasting my time."
With that, he turned and walked out, leaving me sitting there, completely stunned.
A plan to his taste and status.
The words echoed in my head as I stared at the door, my mind racing. How the hell was I supposed to pull that off?