?Chapter 1497:


    “Cohen…” The memory of Kyle’s earnest voice surfaced, clear as day. “Cooper Group must never fall into Kolton’s hands. His mind is twisted, filled with malice. He craves shortcuts and will sacrifice any principle for profit. If he takes control, he will ruin this century-old foundation.”


    Back then, Cohen had dismissed the warning. Now, the truth of it was a knife in his heart. He squeezed his eyes shut, but hot tears escaped, tracing paths down his cheeks.


    He had never wanted to betray Kyle. But Kolton’s ruthlessness had known no bounds. He had engineered a gambling trap, burying Cohen under a mountain of debt overnight and threatening the lives of his family. To survive, to protect his loved ones, Cohen had switched sides — bing Kolton’s nt beside Kyle, a betrayal that indirectly led to the tragedy that followed.


    For years, he had lived like a cornered animal, eaten alive by daily guilt and paralyzing fear.


    “Mr. Cooper… I am so sorry,” Cohen whispered into the empty room. He knelt on the floor, hands sped together in a futile gesture of penance.


    Then he raised his head, his eyes refocusing on the phone screen — on the victims’ usations and Cooper Group’s grotesque, ongoing attempts to whitewash the truth.


    A new, steely determination hardened within him.


    “I have lived in shadows long enough.” Cohen’s fists clenched until his knuckles turned white, his gaze solidifying into one of grim resolve. He pushed himself to his feet and wiped the tears from his face. “It is time to step into the light. Time to expose Kolton Cooper’s true face to the world. I will be the witness. I will point directly to the murderer.”


    At the same moment, outside the imposing gates of the Nelson family mansion, the weather mirrored the turmoil within. The sky was a cauldron of dark, stormy clouds.


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    A tall figure in a ck trench coat stood perfectly still before the ornate entrance. It was Jarrod. In his hand, he carried a long ck metal case. Rain soaked his hair and dripped from the hem of his coat, but he seemed not to feel the cold. Only his eyes betrayed the tempest within — burning with an intense, almost spectral light in the gathering gloom.


    He pressed a switch on the case. Thetches released with a soft hiss and the lid opened. Inside, cradled in fitted foam,y a meticulously craftedposite crossbow, beside it several arrows with polished metal tips that gleamed with cold precision.


    Jarrod reached in, his fingertips brushing the cool, anodized stock. He felt the texture, the promise of contained power. Slowly, he lifted his gaze to thevish vi before him. This was the Nelson residence — the ce where Rosanna was hiding.


    “Rosanna…” Jarrod’s voice was a low, grating rasp, each syble forced out between clenched teeth. “You devil. Today, justice finds you.”


    With a decisive motion, he snapped the case shut and hefted it in his hand. Then he stepped forward, moving with grim purpose toward the wrought-iron gates.


    The air in the Nelson vi was thick with the sharp scent of antiseptic and blood.


    Rosanna sat before her vanity, studying her reflection in silence. A night of emergency care had transformed her once-beautiful face into something mummy-like, swathed entirely in bandages. Only her cold eyes, her nostrils, and her swollen mouth were visible.


    The sight was grotesque — yet it stirred nothing within her.


    She knew that in the master bedroomy the man she despised with every cell in her body. Axell. Now just a corpse.


    Servants moved through the halls with hushed, tense efficiency, breaths held. They feared the capricious mistress of the Nelson house, certain her ruined face would make her a tyrant.


    “Good morning, Mrs. Nelson.” The butler entered with her breakfast tray, his toneyered with respect and extreme caution. “Please, you must eat something.” He hesitated, then added, “Mr. Nelson has not yet emerged. He must be exhausted from his travels and is still resting.”


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