Chapter 193: Chapter 193: Trapped in the Villa
Other servants overheard this and couldn’t help but start to suspect their companions. The surveillance had been destroyed and items stolen — this was no small matter.
If they couldn’t clear themselves of suspicion, they might get fired as a thief, and it would be impossible to find such well-paid work again.
For a while, everyone was on edge, too scared to speak, harboring intense anger toward the "thief" among them.
Cyrus Hawthorne, however, didn’t say another word. He withdrew his meaningful gaze, took his phone, and left the living room.
As soon as he left, the living room erupted into chaos, with constant accusations of "Was it you?"
It wasn’t until Cyrus’s figure disappeared up the spiral staircase that Ann Vaughn breathed a sigh of relief, just as she was about to quietly slip out of the living room, someone grabbed her apron!
Ann Vaughn’s heart skipped a beat. She turned around to see the servant who had woken her earlier looking at her suspiciously. She swallowed hard, "W-What’s up?"
"Did you enter the master bedroom?" The servant lowered their voice, looking at her with suspicion.
"How could that be possible? Mr. Hawthorne has strictly forbidden it. Why would I make such a foolish mistake? Besides, if I were the thief, why wouldn’t I steal money or valuables instead of some pendant that no one knows what it’s for, right?"
Ann Vaughn talked incessantly, almost convincing herself.
The servant thought about it and found her reasoning quite logical, thus dismissing the suspicion.
Seeing that the servant no longer doubted her, Ann Vaughn’s eyes flashed with a smile. She wanted to continue moving out of the living room, but was caught again.
"You’d better not run around. Until we find out who the thief is, we’re all suspects and should monitor each other. Our posts are close, so we’re a team."
The smile that Ann Vaughn had yet to retract froze, a row of ellipses metaphorically appeared over her head.
She wondered why Cyrus didn’t pursue or punish anyone before leaving, thinking the matter was overlooked.
She hadn’t expected him to effortlessly cause these people to turn on each other, with so many eyes monitoring each other, self-checking for the "culprit."
If she tried to run out of the villa now, it would be as good as telling everyone she was fleeing out of guilt.
Understanding this, Ann Vaughn bit her lip, feeling as if a stone weighed down her heart, uneasy.
Taking advantage of a bathroom break, Ann Vaughn pulled out her phone from the bulging pocket of her coat. Turning it on, she immediately called Susie Sommers.
"Finally, I’ve reached you. Are you in trouble over there? I’m by the tree here, can you come out?" Susie’s voice was urgent over the phone.
"I’m fine, there’s a minor complication that hasn’t been resolved. I’m stuck here for now." Ann Vaughn thought for a moment and added, "Find an excuse to pacify the little one so they don’t worry."
"Don’t worry, Sherry and I will take good care of Kenny, but you need to be careful too. If anything goes wrong, find a way to escape immediately, got it?"
"Okay, I won’t say more."
After hanging up, Ann Vaughn turned off her phone and hid it in the inner pocket of her coat before leaving the bathroom.
The work of the person she was impersonating was considered the lightest in the entire villa, just watering the garden and weeding.
But for Ann Vaughn, this was harder than tidying the whole villa.
Can you imagine walking hungry for five days, starving on the road, and suddenly coming across a bowl of aromatic, enticing braised pork?
Can you imagine the torment of being able to look but not eat?
Ann Vaughn feared that if she stared at those thriving herbs any longer, she might not be able to control her hands.
The only consolation was that the person she was impersonating had a pretty good reputation, being considerate of the younger servants, so no one suspected her.
Although she could technically disregard the consequences and find a way to leave, doing so would place the burden of her actions on the person whose identity she’d taken.
After finishing her work in the garden and having dinner in the kitchen, Ann Vaughn returned to the servants’ quarters behind the villa.
Meanwhile.
On the second floor of the villa, in the study.
After Mark Joyce finished reporting on work matters, he laid a stack of documents on the table, saying to the man seated behind it, "President Hawthorne, these are the files left over from the audit for your review."
The top paper prominently displayed a photo of the "auntie" Ann Vaughn was impersonating.
"Hmm." Cyrus Hawthorne, cold and detached, lowered his gaze, picking up the files to read.
The file was straightforward, the person’s background was clean, with no criminal record.
It was far removed from the information Cyrus was hoping to find, nothing matched.
Yet, recalling those bright, clear eyes, Cyrus couldn’t help but frown, an icy aura emanating from him.
Mark Joyce, witnessing this, wished he could vanish instantly from the room.
Could all those rumors among the servants be true? Could President Hawthorne actually—be interested in a middle-aged woman?!
This thought lasted only a second before Mark denied it. After all, there were countless socialites and beauties in the Imperial Capital, endless women throwing themselves at President Hawthorne over the years. None had gotten anywhere near him.
Unless there was something peculiar about this woman that caught President Hawthorne’s attention.
Moments later, Cyrus put down the files, his fingertips pressing firmly at his subtly aching brow, and asked in a deep voice, "How is the situation with Number 09?"
"Everything is as usual, nothing special. However, the doctor mentioned today that if the patient experiences a certain level of stimulation, they might awaken." Mark remembered seeing Number 09 today, a chill ran through him.
"Tell them to do nothing but keep a close watch."
"Yes."
Once Mark left, silence returned to the study.
Cyrus haphazardly placed the stack of documents aside, picked up a nearby photo frame, and gazed at it with a quiet, inexplicable tenderness.
In the photograph, a girl in a pale yellow dress, small and dainty, hid under a tree, only her fluffy head visible, her bright eyes sparkling at the camera.
It was as if she were playfully and mischievously looking directly at the viewer, radiantly alive.
Yet, the only glimpse of radiance was in the photo, while a cage of shadows and fog seemed to enclose around Cyrus, imprisoning him.
"Is it you?"
After a long while, a hoarse whisper resonated in the study, suppressing infinite expectation and yearning, all longing restrained between his lips.
Allowing it to transform into a blade, carving his heart, bloody and raw.