?Chapter 1499:
Axelly sprawled face down across the carpet, his body rigid and unmoving. His eyes stared lifelessly ahead, still stretched wide, as though resentment and injustice clung to him even in death.
“Axell!” A scream tore from Rosanna’s chest, raw and agonized. She wrenched herself free from the maids and rushed forward, copsing beside him. Her hands hovered above his body, quaking, unable to bring themselves to make contact. “How could this happen… how could this happen… Axell, wake up. Please. Do not do this to me.”
Rosanna’s disy was impable. The grief she projected proved contagious — several maids lowered their heads, tears streaking down their cheeks as quiet sobs filled the room.
The butler, eyes reddened and wet, stepped forward and tried to console her. “Mrs. Nelson, please ept our deepest condolences. May you find strength in this unbearable moment.”
“Call the police — at once!” Rosanna jerked her head up, tears clinging to hershes, eyes blown wide with terror sharpened by fury. “Axell was killed. This was murder. Call the police immediately. I want the murderer found.”
“The authorities have already been notified, Mrs. Nelson,” the butler replied without hesitation. “They are on their way.”
At those words, relief washed through Rosanna’s body. She copsed over Axell once more, her sobs growing louder as her disheveled hair fell forward, concealing the corner of her lips curling into a deranged smile.
Meanwhile, beyond the vi walls, a lone figure scaled the towering barrier with the agility of a gecko and dropped down without a sound. It was Jarrod.
The long case rested against his back as his gaze cut through the garden with predatory focus. He knew exactly where he was — the Nelson vi, notorious for its heavy security. Once he acted, there would be no clean escape. The thought failed to give him pause. Rage and resentment had hollowed him out, scorching away what little reason he once possessed.
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He had lived as a punchline, a discarded failure. But this single act would define his end. He owed it to his parents, destroyed by Rosanna’s schemes; to Maia, who had endured undeserved suffering; and to the weak, frightened version of himself he had long buried.
“Rosanna will die,” he swore under his breath.
As Jarrod crouched within the bushes, inching toward the main structure in search of a suitable position to assemble his weapon, a sudden sound cut through the quiet.
The piercing howl of police sirens. Approaching fast.
Jarrod stiffened. Every movement halted.
What was happening? Why were the police here? Had Rosanna somehow discovered his n?
No. That could not be possible.
He caught himself spiraling and pushed the thought aside — he was jumping to conclusions over sirens alone when he hadn’t even made his move. Perhaps nervousness had gotten the better of him, like a thief frozen beneath a spotlight.
Forcing his breathing to steady, Jarrod parted the leaves and looked on.
Three patrol cars pulled up to the vi gates. Armed officers spilled out, spreading fast as they secured every entrance.
Jarrod’s fists tightened, nails biting into his palms until pain grounded him. “Damn it.” He understood then — under these circumstances, there was no opening, no chance to strike. Making an attempt now would only ensure Rosanna’s escape, while his own death would amount to nothing.
He had no choice but to wait. As long as he remained alive, hope still existed.
Jarrod adjusted the case on his shoulder and turned back without a second thought. Hands and feet working in practiced coordination, he scaled the wall again through the same entry point he had used before.
.
.
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