Emerald’s POV
The night passed without sleep.
No matter how hard I tried to shut my eyes and rest, sleep never came. Every time I closed my eyes, all I saw were flashes of last night.
Kelvin standing on that stage, Maya smiling beside him. The screens displaying fabricated evidence. The accusing stares. The whispers. And then my grandfather’s call.
By the time dawn came, I had given up entirely.
Sunday morning arrived with a suffocating sense of dread hanging over me. I was on the first flight to Washington, D.C. by 6:30 a.m.
The flight from Los Angeles took roughly five hours, but the entire journey felt much longer. I sat by the window in complete silence, unable to focus on anything around me.
I had not eaten breakfast. Not because I wasn’t hungry. I was.
But the nervous breakdown I suffered before leaving Los Angeles had left me throwing up everything in my stomach until there was nothing left except bile.
Even now, my throat still burned faintly.
Though I had managed to reduce the swelling around my eyes with an ice pack before leaving, I knew I still looked terrible. Exhausted. Drained. Broken.
Yet none of that mattered.
Only one thought occupied my mind. How was Grandfather going to punish me today?
That question followed me throughout the entire flight. It remained with me even after landing in D.C. Fortunately, a chauffeur from the estate was already waiting at the airport.
The drive lasted about twenty minutes. I stared blankly out the window the entire time.
Soon, the estate gates came into view.
My grandfather’s residence stood on a vast expanse of land surrounded by endless greenery. The property was breathtaking in a quiet, intimidating way.
It was beautiful, orderly and untouched. Only Grandfather lived here now.
Grandmother had passed away years ago, and since then, he had chosen to remain here alone.
Though once in a while, the entire Hugo family returned to the estate for important celebrations and family gatherings.
To most people, this place would seem peaceful. Serene, even. But to me, it felt suffocating.
If given a choice, I would rather sleep in a cramped room shared with ten strangers than live here permanently. That was how much I hated this place.
The car came to a stop.
My palms had started sweating. I stepped out and walked toward the entrance with legs that felt heavier than usual.
The housekeeper, Mrs. Walters, greeted me at the door. She was in her early fifties and had served my grandfather for years.
She gave me a polite nod. "Miss Emerald."
I managed a faint greeting in return.
She did not waste time with small talk. "This way," she said to me.
I followed her in silence.
Each step toward Grandfather’s study made my heartbeat louder. By the time we reached the large double doors, my chest felt tight again.
Mrs. Walters knocked once before opening the door. "He is waiting for you."
I swallowed hard, then I stepped inside. The familiar scent of old books, ground ink and leather hit me immediately.
The study looked exactly as I remembered. Large shelves lined with books stretched across the walls, while heavy wooden furniture filled the room with an oppressive sense of authority.
Behind the large desk sat my grandfather. Old Mr. Hugo.
I straightened instinctively. Even now, years later, his presence alone could make me feel like a child again.
He would turn eighty in a few years, yet he remained remarkably fit and sharp.
Sometimes, moments like this made me feel as though his aging had somehow slowed since his sixties.
It was unsettling.
I lowered my gaze respectfully. "Good morning, Grandpa."
My voice came out calm enough, at least on the surface. Grandfather gave no response. He did not look up.
He wore his reading glasses and remained focused on the page before him, writing with complete concentration as though I had not entered the room at all.
Silence filled the study. Seconds passed, then minutes.
I remained standing. My heartbeat grew louder with each passing moment. This was deliberate, I knew it.
Grandfather had always been like this. He understood pressure better than anyone. He knew exactly how to make silence feel unbearable.
Finally, after what felt like forever, he finished the page he was working on. Only then did he straighten his neck.
He removed his rimmed glasses slowly and set them aside before finally lifting his gaze to me. His expression was unreadable, emotionless and cold. Then he spoke.
"Sit."
Relief and dread mixed strangely inside me. "Thank you, Grandpa."
I stepped forward carefully and sat in one of the chairs facing his desk. Even seated, my body felt tense. I could hear my own heartbeat pounding in my chest. A faint humming sound had started in my ears.
I released a slow breath and forced myself to focus on the man before me.
Grandfather watched me in silence for a few moments. Then he asked, "What do you think of men who make poor financial investments?"
I blinked, my lashes fluttering lightly. The question caught me off guard as it was almost out of context. Still, I wasn’t surprised.
Grandfather never attacked directly. He never raised his voice or started with accusations. That was not his way.
He always began with calm, seemingly unrelated questions. Questions that felt harmless. Questions that lowered your guard. Then, when you least expected it, he would strike.
Knowing his methods too well, I refused to relax. No matter how ordinary his question sounded, I knew better than to underestimate him.
I straightened slightly. Carefully, I answered, "I think poor financial decisions usually come from emotion clouding judgment."
Grandfather said nothing, so I continued. "Sometimes it comes from greed. Sometimes impatience. Other times, it happens because people overestimate potential while ignoring obvious risks."
I paused to study his reaction, but his expression remained unreadable, so I swallowed and continued.
"In the end, bad investments often happen because someone convinces themselves that what they want to believe matters more than what the facts actually show."
A long silence followed.
Grandfather studied me for several seconds. Then, almost imperceptibly, he nodded.
My stomach tightened. That subtle nod did not comfort me. If anything, it made me more nervous.
Then he asked the next question. This time, his eyes locked directly onto mine.
"In your honest opinion, what do you think of young women full of potential who build their lives around a man?"
My fingers stiffened.
Grandfather continued, his voice calm and measured. "What do you think of women who spend their youth lifting and building men who do not value them?"
His gaze remained fixed on me as he added, "Men who neither appreciate their sacrifices nor deserve their efforts."
The colour drained from my face almost instantly. My breathing faltered. There it was. The real conversation had begun.
My fingers began fidgeting uncontrollably in my lap. I quickly tried to stop, but my breathing grew uneven.
Grandfather noticed everything. He always did, yet his expression did not change. He simply continued watching me calmly and silently.
The pressure in the room intensified. Every instinct in me screamed that this was only the beginning. And I knew it.
Grandfather was just getting started.