Chapter 7

Valerie Shaw POV

The car stopped at the villa gates.

Inside, Brittany was casually lounging on the sofa, flipping through a fashion magazine.

Hearing the commotion, she looked up. When she saw me and the striking black urn in my arms, a flicker of surprise crossed her face, quickly turning into undisguised mockery.

"Well, well, holding someone's..."

"Brittany Reed!"

My voice was hoarse and broken. I walked step by step toward Brittany.

"The nurse said you visited my mother the day she died. What did you say to her?!"

Brittany watched my distraught state, a malicious smile she couldn't control spreading across her lips.

She stood up, took two steps closer, and in a voice only we could hear, whispered:

"I just told her that her daughter was as useless as she was, couldn't keep a man, couldn't keep her dignity, like a pathetic worm serving as someone's... Ah!"

Before she finished, the next second, I had already raised my hand and delivered a stinging slap across her face.

Brittany shrieked, stumbling back into the nearby wine rack, sending expensive bottles crashing to the floor.

My eyes were blood red, and I raised my hand to strike again.

Almost simultaneously, a figure rushed forward, faster, and shoved me hard to the ground.

My spine hit the floor, and my hands and feet were cut by glass shards, making my face turn ashen from pain.

But Ethan paid no attention, his eyes filled only with cold fury and accusation.

"Valerie Shaw, what are you trying to do now?!"

My knuckles turned white as I gripped the floor, gritting my teeth. "She killed my mother; she should pay for her crime!"

"Ethan, I didn't..." Brittany immediately grabbed Ethan's lapel, her eyes reddened.

"You don't need to explain, I believe you." Ethan gently cut her off. The next second, his gaze returned to me.

"Brittany has always been kind-hearted since she was a child; she wouldn't even step on an ant. Do you think everyone is like you, with a murderer's blood in their veins?"

Do you think everyone is like you?

I looked at his handsome yet utterly unfamiliar face, at Brittany's victorious gaze from his embrace.

Summoning courage from somewhere, I lunged forward and slapped Ethan hard across the face.

Ethan's head snapped to the side from the force of the slap. He turned back, disbelieving, his eyes filled with shock and fury.

He was about to speak, but the next second, meeting my bloodshot but hateful eyes, he said nothing.

In the end, he simply picked up Brittany.

"Out of respect for your mother's passing, I won't blame you for this slap. But you'd better pray Brittany is okay."

He then called in the bodyguards: "Keep a close eye on her."

And so, I was confined again.

After an unknown amount of time, urgent footsteps sounded outside the door again. Ethan had returned, his face terrifyingly cold.

"Brittany's wrist was almost fractured. She might not be able to play the piano again. She's been crying, saying it hurts terribly."

I showed no reaction, simply holding the urn tightly in my arms.

Ethan grew even more enraged at my demeanor. He stepped forward, snatched the urn from my arms, and casually tossed it to a nearby bodyguard.

My pupils constricted. Just as I was about to lunge to retrieve it, the bodyguards slammed me to the ground.

"Ethan King! What are you doing? Give me back my mother!"

Ethan's eyes showed no flicker of emotion. He took out his phone, dialed a number, and put it on speaker.