"I'll have you taken home first, okay?" Quentin's voice was a low, soothing vibration.
Amanda looked up, her eyes red and puffy, and shook her head with stubborn conviction. "If I don't see Jasper wake up with my own eyes, my heart won't be at peace."
Quentin sighed, pressing a lingering, reassuring kiss to her forehead. "I'll stay here and watch him for you. If you stay and get sick again, it'll break my heart. Go home, rest, and come back in the morning."
Knowing he was right, and feeling the protective warmth of his gaze, Amanda finally nodded. "I'll come early tomorrow morning then."
Quentin draped his heavy suit vest over her shoulders, wrapping her tightly as if shielding her from the world's coldness. He signaled to Winter and Vance. "Take her home. Winter, stay with her tonight. Don't leave her side."
Retribution and Resolve
In the car, the silence was heavy. Vance watched Amanda through the rearview mirror, his voice cautious. "Don't blame yourself too much. Elena was forced to the edge; she went completely mad. No one could have predicted such recklessness."
Amanda leaned her head back, her eyes flashing with a glacial light. She thought of Elena's descent—her desperation, her filth, her betrayal. She had wanted to watch Elena rot slowly, but she had forgotten a vital lesson: a cornered animal is the most dangerous.
"What happened online..." Vance continued, "President Harris said he'll handle it himself."
Amanda's lips curled into a thin ghost of a smile. "There is only one outcome now," she whispered. "Death."
But it wouldn't be Quentin's hands that did the deed. Nor hers. Elena had crossed the one man who valued blood above all else: Derrick Kent.
The car's atmosphere turned chillingly solemn. Even Winter felt a shiver run down her spine. Amanda turned to Vance, her eyes burning with a sharp, calculated spark. "Vance, I have something I need you to do. Now."
She was done waiting. If being bitten once made you fear the snake for a lifetime, she intended to make sure the snake never had the chance to strike again.
The Power of the Harris Name
Back at the hospital, Quentin stood before the glass of the recovery room, his reflection overlapping Jasper's pale form.
"Boss," Secretary James whispered, approaching from the shadows. "Derrick has already left. I've also begun suppressing the news of the scandal as per your orders."
Quentin didn't turn around; he simply held out his hand. James immediately placed a smartphone into his palm. "I've created your official account, sir."
Quentin's fingers moved with efficient, cold precision. He had never cared for the court of public opinion, but he would not tolerate the world pairing his wife with another man—nor would he allow the "back-door" rumors to tarnish her name.
He selected two photos:
The Evidence: A clear shot of their red marriage certificates.
The Truth: A candid photo of Amanda, eyes bright with laughter, leaning happily against his lap.
He typed four words as his first and only caption: "My dear Mrs. Harris."
He tossed the phone back to James. The secretary's jaw nearly hit the floor. This wasn't just a PR move; it was a tactical strike. By revealing their marriage, Quentin had essentially slapped every netizen in the face.
Does the wife of the man who owns half the entertainment industry need to go through the back door? If anything, people would be begging to fund her movies just to catch a glimpse of the Harris influence.
"Let's go," Quentin said, his eyes darkening.
"Where to, Boss?"
Quentin gave him a glance so sharp it felt like a physical blade. James swallowed hard and lowered his head. He knew that look. Someone was about to pay a debt.
The Fox's Den
In a damp, lightless basement on the outskirts of the city, Elena Lewis was suspended by iron chains, her arms stretched painfully above her head. A sharp, stinging sensation in her arm forced her eyes open. A man in a white coat was retracting a needle; the stimulant he had injected made her mind agonizingly alert.
"Conscious at last," a voice purred.
Elena looked up. A tall man sat on a simple wooden chair, his eyes narrow and predatory—a bloodthirsty fox. Even through the haze of pain, she recognized the family resemblance. He looked 60% like Jasper, but with none of the warmth.
"You're quite lucky," Derrick Kent said, his voice terrifyingly gentle. "Most people don't survive a knife from Quentin Harris. He must have held back for the sake of his wife's reputation."
Derrick stood up, slowly rolling up his sleeves with the precision of a surgeon. "But unlike Quentin, I don't have a wife to please. And I certainly don't have mercy."
A subordinate placed a gleaming, silver hunting knife in his hand. Derrick inspected the blade, clicking his tongue in disappointment. "It's too blunt."
"I'll get another, Mr. Kent," the guard stammered.
"No, no," Derrick chuckled, walking toward Elena. He ignored the tears streaming down her face. "If the knife is dull, we just have to play a little harder to make the cut, don't we? Hahaha!"
He pressed the cold steel against Elena's right cheek.
"The game," he whispered, pressing down until a thin line of red began to bloom on her skin, "has only just begun."