Chapter 4 He Knows Everything

The car tore through the night and screeched to a stop at the hospital entrance.

Zachary yanked Cheryl down the hallway and into a private room.

"Zachary..." Jasmine lay in the hospital bed wearing a patient gown, eyes red and swollen. The moment she saw Cheryl, she shrank back into the blankets.

"Why did you bring Cheryl? Zachary, don't blame her. I must've done something to upset her. That's why she had someone scare me."

That weak, affected voice sent goosebumps crawling over Cheryl's skin.

She looked at the woman in the bed with cold eyes, scanning her from head to toe. Then she let out a soft, derisive laugh.

Zachary's face darkened. "What are you laughing at? You put her through this, and you think it's funny?"

"I'm laughing because she can't even act. And because you're stupider than I thought." Cheryl's gaze was sharp with disappointment. "Zachary, open your eyes and look. She says she was kidnapped. But what kidnapper doesn't confiscate your phone? What kidnapper lets you calmly call for help?"

She pointed at the dress draped over the sofa. "She was kidnapped, but that dress doesn't have a single wrinkle?"

Cheryl gave a cold snort and stepped closer. "And look—she was so traumatized, yet not one of her manicured nails is broken. Her eyeliner's still perfect. What, do kidnappers do touch-ups and manicures now?"

Jasmine's face went rigid. Her eyes darted nervously, and she shoved her hands under the blanket. "I—I managed to escape when they weren't looking—"

"Enough!" Zachary cut Cheryl off sharply.

The truth was, he'd noticed the inconsistencies the moment she'd started talking.

He wasn't an idiot. How could he miss such obvious holes in the story?

But seeing Cheryl's calm, mocking, superior expression—it felt like a knife twisting in his pride.

The old Cheryl would've cried and begged him to believe her. She would've scrambled to prove her innocence, tears streaming down her face.

But now? She was detached. Clinical. Looking at him like he was a fool.

That sense of defeat made him inexplicably furious.

So much so that he didn't want to question whether Jasmine had lied.

He just wanted to crush Cheryl's defiance.

"Cheryl, I brought you here to apologize. Not to play detective!" His eyes were dark, his tone domineering.

"Jasmine was traumatized—that's a fact. You've been targeting her for ages—also a fact. Apologize. Now."

Cheryl understood. He knew Jasmine was lying.

He just didn't want to admit it. He wanted to punish her.

Whether or not she'd actually kidnapped Jasmine didn't matter. She had to apologize either way.

She looked at the unreasonable man in front of her and felt nothing but cold amusement.

"And if I don't?"

Zachary gave a cold laugh, as if offering charity—or dangling bait he knew she'd bite. "If you apologize nicely and admit you were wrong, I'll let this go. Next month, I'll clear my schedule. We'll go to Dream Isle."

He thought this would seal the deal.

After all, Dream Isle was the place she'd been talking about for five years.

He was certain that once he offered this carrot, she'd cave—just like she always had.

Cheryl stared at his condescending expression.

Her heart, already numb from pain, went ice-cold.

She laughed bitterly.

"Zachary, what makes you think I still want to go to Dream Isle with you? Save the trip for your mistress."

Before he could process her words, Cheryl raised her hand and slapped him hard across the face.

Zachary's head snapped to the side.

He froze, eyes wide with disbelief.

Jasmine gasped and covered her mouth.

"That slap," Cheryl said, rubbing her stinging palm, "is payback for the one you gave me at home." Her eyes were cold and unfamiliar. "Zachary, you are shameless beyond belief."

She turned on her heel and walked out of the room without looking back.

Zachary stared at the doorway, his gaze venomous and unwilling to accept what had just happened.

When had Cheryl become like this?

The next day, the sky was overcast, threatening rain.

Cheryl grabbed her car keys and drove to the office.

Nineteen days left until she reported to Andrew's overseas branch. She needed to wrap up her core design projects and hand them off cleanly.

Leave with a clear conscience.

But when she reached the glass security door of the design department and swiped her card, the machine beeped an error.

She tried twice. Both times: Card Invalid.

Just as she was about to head to reception, Mike, the design assistant, walked by with a stack of files. Seeing Cheryl locked out, his expression turned painfully awkward.

"Ms. Mitchell." His eyes shifted nervously.

"What's wrong with my card?" Cheryl asked first, urgency creeping into her voice.

Mike scratched his head uncomfortably. "Your access was... deactivated this morning. By Mr. Francis."

Cheryl's chest tightened, but her face remained calm. "Why?"

"I..." Mike bit his lip, clearly unwilling to say more.

He quietly swiped his own card to let her through.

"You should... just go see for yourself."

Cheryl walked into the design department with a stony expression. Along the way, colleagues who used to treat her with respect now watched her like she was a spectacle.

She headed straight for her office.

But when she pushed open the door, she stopped in her tracks.

Inside, Jasmine sat leisurely in her chair, sipping coffee.

Zachary stood by the floor-to-ceiling window, one hand in his pocket, on the phone.

Hearing the door open, he turned and gave her a cold glance.

Then he said into the phone, "That's it. Talk later."

"What are you doing here?" Cheryl's voice was tight with suppressed fury.

Jasmine immediately set down her cup and stood, adopting a timid expression. "Cheryl, don't misunderstand. Zachary asked me to come."

"I told her to come." Zachary cut Jasmine off.

He strode to the desk and stared Cheryl down, a gleam of vindictive satisfaction in his eyes.

"Starting today, all your design projects—whether unfinished or about to be signed—are being transferred to Jasmine."

Cheryl looked at him like he was an idiot. "Transferred? On what grounds?"

Zachary sneered. "On the grounds that Jasmine suffered severe emotional trauma last night. Since you refuse to apologize, these projects will serve as compensation for her distress. Besides, your mind clearly isn't on work anymore. You might as well go home and rest."

He was taking the work she'd poured countless sleepless nights into—every line, every detail painstakingly crafted—and casually handing it over to his mistress as "compensation"?