CHAPTER 125: MURDERER! THIEF! CONFESS!!

The Jenkins mansion, once proud and untouchable, now looked like a fortress under siege.

The gates trembled beneath the press of bodies—paparazzi, journalists, even curious neighbors, all shouting and shoving microphones through the iron bars.

Their voices clashed in a storm of questions that seemed to shake the very walls of the estate.

"Mr. Jenkins! Is it true you killed your partner?"

"Lewis! The video shows everything—what do you have to say?"

"Do you deny stealing the company?"

The flashes of cameras burst like lightning in the dusk, scattering across the manicured lawns, reflecting on the mansion’s grand windows.

The air smelled faintly of rain on stone, dampness carrying through the iron gates and mixing with the electric sting of overheated camera lights.

Inside, the family wasn’t untouched by the chaos—the sound seeped in, crawling through the halls until it pressed on every ear and every chest like a suffocating weight.

The muffled roar of the mob throbbed against the glass panes, every chant a drumbeat in their bones.

Rachel stood frozen near the tall glass doors, her reflection trembling on their surface. Her palms were clammy against the cool glass, and her pulse hammered in her throat.

"Mom, Dad... what are they saying?" Her voice wavered, breaking with fear. "Why are they calling you a murderer, Dad?"

Her mother, Cassandra, was pacing. Her elegance—always perfectly composed—now looked cracked, fraying at the edges.

She clutched her silk shawl tighter around her shoulders as though it could shield her, though her eyes were sharp, calculating.

The click of her heels on marble was quick, sharp, almost frantic, echoing in the cavernous room like a metronome of panic.

"This is a disaster," she hissed, though the venom in her voice was aimed less at the mob outside and more at her husband. "Lewis, do something. Deny it. Say it’s fabricated—anything."

But Lewis... Lewis sat slumped in the armchair like a man who had aged decades overnight. His face was pale, damp with sweat that caught the golden light of the chandelier.

The sour tang of whiskey still clung to his breath, mingling with the faint sweetness of cigar smoke long settled into the drapes.

His eyes darted not at them but at the floor, as though he could already see the bloodstain of his past pooling there again.

The video had spread everywhere. A shaky recording, grainy but clear enough—the voice, the confession, the chilling details of that night when Logan’s father had been betrayed.

A meeting that should have sealed a business partnership instead ended with a blade and silence.

And Lewis Jenkins had walked away, taking not just a life, but an empire.

Rachel turned sharply, her voice trembling with fury and disbelief. "Father—tell me it’s not true. Tell me this video is a lie. Please."

She wanted to believe him, needed to—but the panic etched into his face was answer enough.

Cassandra stopped pacing. Her voice cut the room like ice. "So it is true."

Lewis flinched. He tried to speak, but his throat worked soundlessly before he managed to rasp out, "I... I did what I had to. For us. For this family."

Rachel recoiled, shaking her head violently. "For us? You stole another man’s life, another man’s company! And you let me—" her voice cracked, "—you let me stand proud, defend our name, not knowing it was all built on blood?"

From outside, the voices of the paparazzi swelled louder, a chant now, a frenzy feeding on itself: "Murderer! Thief! Confess!" The vibration of it rattled faintly through the windows, like a storm pressing against the glass.

Lewis pressed his hands over his ears like a child, rocking slightly in his chair. His nails scraped against his temples, leaving faint red streaks. "They weren’t supposed to know... that video wasn’t supposed to exist."

Rachel’s tears burned as they slipped down her cheeks, hot against her cold skin. Her voice broke as she pressed him again. "Say something! Say it wasn’t you, Father—say that man in the video isn’t you!"

But Cassandra’s eyes narrowed. Her tone was cold, detached, a blade hidden in silk. "And yet it does exist. Someone kept your sin like a treasure... waiting for the right moment to destroy you."

Rachel turned toward her mother, startled by her calmness, but Cassandra did not meet her daughter’s gaze. She only kept her eyes on Lewis, unflinching.

"Tell me, Lewis," she continued, "how many more secrets have you buried beneath this house?"

Rachel’s breath caught. She looked between them, her mother’s sharp voice and her father’s trembling silence. Horror struck her as realization began to dawn—Cassandra wasn’t surprised.

"You... you knew," Rachel whispered, her voice cracking. "All this time... you knew."

But Cassandra did not answer.

And Lewis only lowered his head into his trembling hands. The silence between his gasps said everything.

The silence broke like glass.

Lewis’s hands dropped from his face, his eyes bloodshot and wild, no longer a mask of defeat but of raw, cornered rage.

He shot to his feet so fast the chair toppled backward with a hollow thud that rang across the marble.

"Enough!" he roared, his voice booming through the hall like thunder. "Do you think you know what it cost me to build this? Do you think I would let some weak man—Logan’s father—dictate my life, my future, your future?"

Rachel stumbled back at the force of his voice, her tears catching in her throat. Her back pressed against the cold glass door, its surface vibrating faintly with the mob’s chant. "Father..." she whispered, the word fragile.

But Lewis wasn’t listening. He was pacing now, his fists clenched, his movements sharp and violent as though striking invisible enemies. His heavy steps echoed against the marble, each one loud enough to shake through Rachel’s spine.

His voice grew darker, louder, spilling decades of buried truth.

"He was nothing!" Lewis spat, flecks of saliva catching in the corner of his lips. "A dreamer, a fool who would have ruined everything. He didn’t deserve the company. I made it what it is. I carried this family to where we stand.

And you—" his finger stabbed the air toward Rachel, trembling with fury, "—you stand there judging me, daring to condemn me, when every dress you wear, every luxury you flaunt, comes from the blood I spilled!"

Rachel’s face broke, horror twisting her expression. She shook her head, whispering, "No... no, this can’t be real..."

Cassandra, standing to the side, watched silently. Her eyes, though tight, were not surprised. She had heard this madness before, lived beside it. She had known. But she said nothing, letting Lewis’s fury burn itself into the room.

Lewis grabbed the edge of the fireplace mantle, his knuckles whitening against the carved stone. The heat of the fire licked at his skin, sweat dripping down his temple, glistening in the light. His chest heaved as though the walls themselves were closing in.

"They want to take it from me. All of it. After everything I’ve done. But I won’t let them." His eyes flickered toward the windows, where the chant pounded like war drums.

For a moment, there was something dangerous in his stare, a spark that made even Cassandra stiffen.

Rachel’s voice broke through, sharp with disbelief. "You... you killed him. You really killed Logan’s father."

Her words landed like a slap.

Lewis turned on her, his face twisted, his voice dropping to a chilling hiss. The air around him seemed to tighten, the heat of his breath sour and heavy. "Yes. And I’d do it again."

Rachel gasped, stumbling back until her hand hit the wall, her nails scraping across the wallpaper. Her whole body trembled, her heart pounding so loud she could barely hear herself sob.

The shouts outside grew louder, the chant now fevered—"Confess! Confess! Confess!"

Lewis’s breathing turned ragged, his chest rattling with every inhale. His eyes darted wildly between the door, the windows, his wife, his daughter. Trapped. Exposed. Hunted. His empire—his illusion—was crumbling, and for the first time, they all saw the man beneath it: desperate, dangerous, undone.

Something in Lewis snapped. With a guttural roar, he seized the crystal decanter from the side table. The cool glass slipped wet against his sweaty palm before he hurled it against the wall.

It shattered into a thousand glittering shards, the sound sharp as a gunshot, the scent of spilled whiskey instantly saturating the air, sharp and bitter.

Rachel screamed and flinched, her hands flying up to shield her face as glass rained onto the marble like deadly confetti.

Lewis spun back toward them, his chest heaving, his hand shaking as though ready to grab the next object within reach. His voice, hoarse and raw, cracked the air.

"They will not take what is mine! Do you hear me? This empire—this name—was forged by me! Not him. Not anyone else!"

Rachel sobbed, shrinking against the wall, her fear plain now. Her father didn’t look like her father anymore—he looked like a stranger, wild-eyed and dangerous, his shadow looming huge and broken against the walls.

Cassandra’s lips pressed into a thin line. Still, she didn’t move, didn’t rush to calm him, didn’t even comfort her daughter. Her silence was its own weapon, her eyes fixed on Lewis with an unflinching, icy calm that only enraged him more.

Lewis’s gaze darted between them, between his wife’s cold stare and his daughter’s trembling form. The empire he had built was collapsing, but here, in this very room, he realized something far worse—his family was already gone.