CHAPTER 177: TAKE HER OUT

The room was heavy with the scent of perfume and blood.

A thin line of sunlight cut through the lace curtains, falling in slanted stripes across the tiled floor — each beam illuminating the faint dust floating in the air like suspended glitter.

But beneath that soft light, the sight was anything but gentle.

Abigail lay there, her hair a disheveled mess, cheeks swollen, a streak of blood trailing from the corner of her mouth.

Her breath came in shallow, trembling pulls. Every exhale was a sound between a moan and a whimper.

Julie stood over her — still, almost eerily calm — the hem of her pale gown brushing against her knees.

Her chest rose and fell with faint restraint, but her face carried no sign of the storm that had just passed.

No triumph. No anger. Only silence carved into her expression like stone.

Ava, on the other hand, was still catching her breath, strands of hair falling across her flushed face.

Her knuckles were red, a faint tremor running through her hand, though her lips curved upward in a proud, satisfied smirk.

"That’s what you deserve," Ava hissed softly, brushing the loose hair from her face.

Her eyes lingered on Abigail’s limp figure for a moment — the same woman who had mocked Julie, humiliated her, and dared to lay a hand on her before.

Now, there she was, sprawled on the cold tiles, defeated.

Julie turned slightly, her voice calm yet carrying a cutting edge.

"I believe now you can’t take her out by yourself," she said, not even looking at Ava. "Let’s look for someone to help you."

There was no softness in her tone. No hesitation.

It was as if she had detached herself entirely from what had just happened.

She reached into the side pocket of her gown and pulled out her phone — her fingers quick and practiced, like she’d done this a thousand times before.

The phone glowed faintly in the dim light.

She scrolled through her contacts with her thumb until she found the name she needed.

"Azazel," she murmured under her breath before pressing call.

Ava watched her, still trying to calm her racing heartbeat.

There was something terrifyingly composed about Julie in that moment — the way her face refused to show emotion, the way her eyes looked blank yet quietly fierce.

Ava had seen Julie cry before. She had seen her smile and tremble.

But this version of her — emotionless, stripped of hesitation — it was new. And somehow, it sent chills down Ava’s spine.

"Hello, Azazel," Julie’s voice was calm through the speaker. "Can you please come to Roman’s side room now?"

On the other end, Azazel was sitting in the living area, scrolling through his phone lazily when her voice came through.

He froze, brows furrowing. The tone of her voice — so even, so stripped of feeling — was enough to make him sit up straight.

"Okay, sis," he replied after a beat, standing up and adjusting his leather jacket. "I’ll be on my way."

He didn’t inform Lisa. He didn’t tell Donovan either.

He just went — something in his gut telling him not to waste time with questions.

The polished tiles echoed faintly beneath his black leather shoes as he moved briskly down the long hallway.

The scent of Roman’s cologne still lingered faintly in the corridor, mixed with the faint hum of the central air and the low ticking of the antique wall clock.

But just as he was about to pass the room beside Roman’s, a sudden tug pulled him backward.

A hand had caught the fabric of his shirt.

He turned, raising a brow in surprise — only to see Ava standing there. Her hair was a little wild, eyes sharp and glinting mischievously.

"Ava?" he blinked, one brow arching. "Aren’t you supposed to be with Julie?"

"Yes, I’m with her," Ava said, breathless but smirking. Her hand still clutched his shirt tightly.

Azazel tilted his head, his tone skeptical but curious. "Then why are you here?"

Ava sighed, her lips curling into a faint smile. "My handsome," she said teasingly, her tone light even though her heartbeat hadn’t slowed from the fight.

Azazel chuckled softly despite himself, shaking his head. "You didn’t answer my question."

Ava leaned slightly forward, eyes flashing with a spark of triumph. "Me and Julie caught the culprit."

His smile disappeared. His face went blank for a second, then tightened.

"The culprit?" he repeated sharply.

Before she could explain further, Azazel pushed past her with a sudden, almost inhuman burst of speed.

His shoes skidded briefly against the smooth tiles before he reached the door and shoved it open with force.

The sound of the door crashing against the wall echoed through the hallway.

"Sister-in-law!" he called as he entered, his voice deep and sharp with urgency.

Julie turned slightly at the sound of his voice, unbothered. "Yes, Azazel."

Her voice came steady, emotionless, but something in her eyes flickered — a faint shadow of exhaustion or maybe the ghost of emotion she refused to show.

Azazel’s eyes swept across the room immediately. His gaze fell on Abigail’s unmoving body sprawled on the ground.

His expression hardened — his jaw tightening. He walked closer, boots making dull thuds against the floor, his frame casting a tall shadow over the scene.

"What happened here?" he asked lowly, though the answer was almost obvious.

Julie didn’t flinch. "She got what she deserved."

Ava crossed her arms and stood near the doorway, her smirk not quite fading.

"You missed the show," she said lightly, almost as if she were talking about a dance rehearsal instead of a beating.

Azazel exhaled through his nose, glancing once at Ava, then back at Julie.

His gaze softened slightly when it landed on Julie’s face — the calmness, the restraint, the faint tremor at the corner of her lips she was trying to hide.

Julie pointed at Abigail’s limp form on the floor. "Can you please carry her out?" she said, her voice low.

Authors thought.

Perhaps this was the moment the reader truly understood the storm that lived inside Julie.

She wasn’t cruel — no, cruelty was something that demanded satisfaction.

Julie’s silence, her emotionless face after beating Abigail, wasn’t satisfaction; it was justice without joy.

The kind that leaves no light behind, only a hollow calm.