At that mont, upon hearing what Oliver just said earlier, Clinton's face twisted with disbelief. His brows furrowed deeply, his mouth parting slightly before his tone sharpened, echoing through the quiet compound.
"Wait—hold on a second," he said, stepping forward, his voice filled with arrogance and wounded pride. "Is it you're just talking to like that? Like… did you just say those words to ?" His hand even pressed against his own chest in mock confusion, his eyes narrowing as though daring Oliver to repeat it.
However Oliver didn't respond imdiately. He paused mid-step, his shoes grinding slightly against the gravel beneath him. His back was still turned, shoulders squared and calm, but there was sothing quietly powerful in his stillness. Then slowly, he turned his head not fully, just enough for Clinton to see part of his expression from the corner of his eye. His tone was calm but sharp, every word deliberate and edged with quiet authority.
"Is there anybody else around here?" he asked, his lips curling into a faint, humorless smile. "Because from where I'm standing, it's just the two of us. So yes," he said, his voice dropping lower, "it's you I'm talking to."
Imdiately Clinton swallowed hard but tried to keep his composure, his jaw tightening. There was sothing about the calmness in Oliver's voice that unsettled him—it wasn't the kind of calm that ca from fear or hesitation. It was the kind of calm that ca from control, from the quiet confidence of a man who knew exactly what he was capable of.
Then Oliver took one step closer—not threateningly, but firmly enough to make his presence felt. His gaze was steady, unwavering. "And let just tell you for a fact," he continued, his tone colder now, "don't push your luck. Don't ever try this kind of ga with again."
He let his words hang in the air for a mont before continuing, his voice now firm, unshakable. "I didn't warn you the first ti, but this is doing it now—don't push ."
Oliver's expression didn't shift. His jaw remained tight, his eyes locked on Clinton's. "I've seen so many of your kind before," he said quietly. "And I know exactly what to do when soone like you tries to cross the line. But for your own good—don't push ."
Without allowing Clinton to say another word, Oliver simply turned and walked away, his footsteps steady and unfazed. The sound of his shoes against the tiled floor echoed softly through the quiet night, each step calm but deliberate—as if to tell Clinton that this conversation was beneath him.
Clinton stood frozen for a few seconds, his chest rising and falling heavily. His jaw clenched so tight that the muscles on the side of his face trembled. He couldn't believe it. He couldn't even process the fact that Oliver—soone he considered far beneath his level—had just walked away from him like that.
His hands slowly curled into fists as he muttered under his breath, his voice low and full of anger. "So this crazy bastard actually talked to like that?" he hissed, shaking his head in disbelief. "This crazy bastard actually insulted to my face? He looked down on —on ! Who the hell does he think he is?"
The more he thought about it, the more his anger grew. His breathing beca heavier, and he could feel the heat crawling up his neck. He turned around sharply, pacing back and forth like a lion locked in a cage. "No," he muttered again, his voice now louder. "He's not getting away with this. Nobody talks to like that and walks away like nothing happened."
Without wasting another second, he snatched his phone from his pocket, his fingers tapping the screen quickly. Within monts, the line connected, and a low, firm male voice answered from the other end.
However Clinton didn't even wait for a greeting. He went straight to the point, his tone serious and cold. "Listen," he said. "I'm not usually the kind of guy who does things like this, but this one is different. This one is personal."
The man on the other end stayed silent, listening carefully.
"I know my father will probably handle his part in all this," Clinton continued, lowering his voice as he walked further away from the house, "but I'm not sitting back this ti. I can't. I won't let this go scot-free."
Then he stopped walking and took in a slow breath before saying, "There's soone I want you to look into. I'll send you his picture right now. I want everything on him—where he stays, where he ca from, who his family is, what he's hiding, who he talks to, even what ti he sleeps. I want all of it. If he's keeping any secrets, I want those too. Leave nothing behind."
For a mont, the line was quiet. Then the man on the phone responded in a low, confident voice, "No problem. Send the picture. You'll have everything you're asking for before the end of twenty-four hours."
Clinton's lips twitched into a cold smirk. "Good," he said before ending the call.
He stood there for a mont, staring at the sky, his anger slowly shaping into sothing else—determination. His eyes darkened with a dangerous glint. "Let's see who you really are, Oliver," he muttered. "Let's see how long your little act lasts when I finally know everything about you."
*
Not long after, Oliver stepped quietly into the mansion. The air inside felt heavy—too calm, too quiet—like the house itself knew sothing was not right. His footsteps were soft against the polished floor as he walked straight toward the room he and Cora shared. The mont he opened the door, Cora was already standing there waiting for him. Her eyes were wide and restless, and before he could even say a word, she quickly shut the door behind him, locking it.
"Oliver," she whispered sharply, her voice trembling. "How did you even know all of that?" She moved closer, her expression filled with both fear and confusion. "How did you know about the drink? How were you able to co up with everything so quickly? I wasn't expecting that—any of it!"
Oliver leaned slightly against the wall, his face calm but his eyes distant. He didn't speak right away.
Cora, growing even more nervous at his silence, began pacing the room. Her fingers fidgeted with the hem of her dress as she continued, her tone dropping lower. "Do you even understand what this ans, Oliver? What are we going to do now?" she said, her voice almost breaking. "Everything might be turning upside down for us, and I don't even know what's real anymore."
Then she stopped pacing and looked at him, her eyes soft but filled with worry. "This was supposed to be simple," she said slowly. "Just a fake relationship. That's all. But now, it feels like things are getting completely out of hand. Everyone's starting to believe it too much. My father—he's trusting you more every single minutes. And if we're not careful, if even one thing slips, it's going to be disastrous if the truth actually cos out."
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