Chapter 6
1076words
She said: "Do you think I actually care about your money? I hate your entire family! You destroyed my father, Damian!"
My mother and I exchanged glances, both seeing enormous shock in each other's eyes.
The argument through the speaker continued as Scarlett revealed everything in her breakdown. Her father, a name we had never heard before, was once Damian's original business partner. At the most crucial moment before the company went public, Damian had schemed against him, embezzled all his shares, and sent him to prison with fabricated evidence. Eventually, her father, unable to bear the humiliation, committed suicide in prison.
"Everything I've done was for revenge! I want you to taste what it feels like to lose everything!" Scarlett's voice was hoarse and frantic.
Mother turned off the speaker, and the study returned to dead silence. The victorious joy on her face had completely disappeared, replaced by a more intense coldness. So it wasn't a simple affair, but a long-premeditated revenge, and we were just pawns in her revenge plan.
"Go to your father's study," Mother's voice was terrifyingly calm, "find everything he kept locked. If what Scarlett said is true, he must have kept evidence from back then. We need to find something that can send him straight to hell."
Father's study had always been a forbidden zone in our home, filled with the smell of cigars and aged leather. Following mother's instructions, I opened the door with the spare key and began a silent search. Bookshelves, safe, hidden compartments... everything appeared flawless.
Finally, my gaze fell on his enormous rosewood desk. The rightmost drawer was locked, quite inconspicuous. I picked the rudimentary lock with a paperclip, and found the drawer completely empty except for a black USB drive with no markings, resting quietly on the velvet lining.
I immediately handed it to mother. Without the slightest hesitation, she brought in the city's top computer expert that very night, a serious-looking young man with black-rimmed glasses.
"The encryption level is very high," the young man said after spending a full three hours, with fine beads of sweat seeping from his forehead. "Mr. Anderson clearly doesn't want anyone to see what's inside."
The moment the last firewall was breached and the folder popped up on the computer screen, my mother and I both held our breath. We expected to see dirty contracts of business sabotage, or false evidence framing partners.
But we were both wrong.
The folder names were simple, arranged by year. We clicked on the most recent year, inside were more subfolders, and these subfolders were named after women. We even saw several names we recognized, names of mother's "friends."
My heart sank, seized by an ominous premonition. Mother, with trembling hands, clicked open one of the folders.
Inside were no business secrets, only numerous videos and photos, along with a document named "Evaluation Notes." The video footage was unbearable to watch, showing recordings of my father and the woman represented by the folder name having intercourse in various settings—hotels, offices, even the guest room of our home. The camera angles were cunningly placed, obviously recorded in secret.
"Target No. 16," Mother read the text from the document in an emotionless tone, "Married, husband is the vice president of Boulder Group. Docile personality, easy to control. Lacks creativity in bed, but highly cooperative. Overall rating: B+. No value for long-term possession."
A violent wave of nausea rose in my throat. He wasn't just having affairs; he was recording, evaluating, and enjoying the conquest and humiliation of these women in an almost perverted way. Like a collector, he treated these women as trophies, categorizing and storing them in this filthy electronic prison.
Mother's face had turned as white as paper, but her eyes were unusually calm as she continued scrolling down. One folder after another, one woman after another, like flipping through the world's most sordid stamp collection. Each folder represented a soul he had conquered and objectified, each "assessment note" filled with condescending, narcissistic judgments.
Finally, our mouse hovered over the last folder.
The name of that folder was "Scarlett."
Mother's finger paused on the mouse, hesitating for a full thirty seconds. Then, as if making some kind of resolution, she clicked down hard.
The video was filmed at Damian's private villa outside the city, with the camera cleverly hidden above the fireplace directly facing the large bed. In the frame, Scarlett's young and vibrant body was entangled with father's fifty-year-old, slightly loose frame, their skin moistened with sweat, each thrust appearing unbearably glaring.
"Your wife... is she boring in bed?" Scarlett panted, running her nails across father's back, her voice carrying a provocative seductiveness.
Father let out a smug snicker, his voice coming through the cheap computer speakers, sounding particularly clear and grating.
"Her? Catherine?" He seemed to have heard the biggest joke ever, "She's like a dead fish, hasn't changed for decades, utterly boring. But that's good, stupid women are easier to control. She still thinks most of the company's assets are in our joint account."
He paused his movements, grabbed Scarlett's chin, and displayed that arrogant smile I knew all too well—the one where he thought he controlled everything.
"Baby, just watch. Once I've finished transferring the last portion of assets, I'll throw her away like garbage. Then, everything in the Anderson family will be ours, and our children's."
Scarlett laughed with trembling excitement. She took the initiative to kiss him, and the two began rolling around together again, creating a scene full of nauseating lust and betrayal.
I instinctively looked toward my mother, only to see her staring intently at the screen, her body completely still, but in her eyes, that once calm frozen lake was now completely shattering.
It was extreme humiliation, bone-deep hatred, and absolute devastation.
She didn't cry, her expression barely changed, she just slowly raised her hand and closed the laptop. The screen instantly went black, and the study once again fell into that suffocating silence.
Then, mother picked up her phone and dialed that all-too-familiar number. The moment the call connected, her voice rang out, cold, clear, without a trace of emotion.
"It's me," she said, "Activate the harshest terms, I demand a public hearing, I want him completely disgraced, left with nothing."
