Master of Lust

Chapter - 268

The voice on the other end darkened, the laughter gone. "Calm down, Mr. Smith. We're not playing games. Unlike the police, we work in the shadows. We see everything that happens in the darkness. And we know you're the one who tried to have your son killed."

Smith's breath caught in his throat, and his body went stiff. "What… what do you want?" he asked, his voice almost a whisper now, terror setting in.

The voice continued, "We've got more than enough proof. You met Jed in that bar, showed him Rick's photo, paid him. And don't forget the supermarket. We've got photos of everything. Rick's car, you and him tampering with it—everything."

His terror turned into full-blown panic. His mind raced, every word from the voice dragging him further into a pit of fear. His pulse pounded in his ears. What the hell do they want?

Rick's father sat frozen in his hospital bed, gripping the phone tightly. The voice from the other side had shifted from eerie authority to outright command, sending cold shivers down his spine.

"We don't know what your issue is with your only son, Mr. Smith," the voice began, almost mocking, "but you've sunk low enough to try to kill him. Let me be clear: for now, Rick's death in any way is... inconvenient for us. So, keep up appearances. Keep your son alive. Do you understand, Mr. Smith?"

The words cut through him like ice, commanding him as though they had the right. Something inside Smith snapped. The fear that had been pulsing through his veins was suddenly drowned out by the fire of his deep-seated hatred for his son. How dare they? Who were they to tell him what to do?

With trembling rage, he lashed out, his voice rising despite the dryness in his throat. "I don't know who the hell you people think you are, calling me, accusing me of trying to kill my own son, and now… now you want to give me orders?"

He paused, his breathing erratic, then spat out, "Yes! I want to kill my son, and I will do it as soon as I can! Who are you to stop me? What are you going to do about it?"

A heavy silence followed his rant. He was panting, chest heaving, his heart racing. Then the voice returned, its tone much darker now, chilling with every word.

"Mr. Smith," it began, slow and deliberate, dripping with menace, "if you're going to continue with this reckless plan of yours, we'll ruin you. First, we'll notify the police, give them every piece of evidence linking you to your attempts on Rick's life. Then, we'll stop your pathetic plot ourselves, save Rick, and make sure you suffer for it."

Smith's heart skipped a beat. The voice's calm threat sank into him like a hook dragging him into the depths of fear again. His defiance began to falter, replaced with confusion and dread. In a trembling voice, he stammered, "I... Is Rick... working with you? Is he related to you?"

A mocking, cold laugh erupted from the other end of the line, cutting him off. "No, Mr. Smith. We're the exact opposite. We are Rick's enemies. But his death, right now, would point the police in our direction. So, if you have any sense left, you'll wait until we tell you it's time. When the moment is right, we'll help you. And unlike your clumsy, idiotic attempts, we'll make sure Rick suffers and dies in a way that leaves no suspicion. But you need patience, Mr. Smith. Do you understand?"

Before Smith could respond, the call abruptly cut off. The silence that followed was deafening. The nurse immediately snatched the phone from his hands, casting a glance his way before walking off.

Smith sat there, his mind racing. Who were these people? How did they know so much? A shiver of terror washed over him as he realized someone knew about his plans. Someone who was watching him. Controlling him. His hatred for Rick flared again as the thoughts of Rick and Jemimah being alone together gnawed at his gut, twisting him in rage. But now... now, he had no choice but to follow their orders.

He was trapped.

Sharon slowed her Harley as they approached Rick's father's house, the engine roaring beneath them until she brought it to a stop. The loud, throaty sound of the bike went silent, replaced by the low hum of the quiet suburban night. She glanced at the house—a modest, slightly worn structure nestled among others, its dim lights casting long shadows.

"So, this is your father's house?" Sharon asked, her voice steady, though her eyes narrowed slightly, taking in every detail of the property.

Rick, still seated behind her, nodded. "Yeah. Not much, but it's home for now." He dismounted from the bike and turned to her, extending an invitation casually. "Why don't you come in for tea of coffee?"

Sharon hesitated, staring at the house, her mind racing. Should I go in? Normally, she would have said no. Stepping into someone's personal space was crossing a line. It could tip him off. But something tugged at her. "If I go in, I might make him feel more comfortable... vulnerable even. Maybe this is my chance to get more from him."

She forced a smile and nodded her head. "Sure. Why not?"

Rick stood before the door and knocked. Sharon stood just behind him, arms crossed, the night air cool against their skin. They heard the sound of footsteps—quick, growing faster with each passing second, until the door swung open, revealing Jemimah. Her face was a mix of relief and concern, but her eyes were wide with worry as she launched into a stream of questions before Rick could say a word.

"What happened? Why are you so late? Why didn't you message me? I called your father, but nobody's picking up, and I tried calling you too, but I couldn't reach you!" Jemimah's voice cracked with frustration, her gaze shifting anxiously from Rick to Sharon and back.

Rick raised his hands in a calming gesture, but Jemimah was already scanning the scene, and then her eyes settled on Sharon—blonde, beautiful, standing close to Rick. A flicker of suspicion crossed Jemimah's face, and she felt a sharp pang of jealousy, unexpected and intense. She and Rick had only just met, barely a day together, but what they had felt special, intimate in a way that went beyond the physical. Could Rick have a girlfriend? Jemimah's mind raced. Why didn't he tell me? Had I just been... something temporary to him?

Her heart sank as she glanced between them. Sharon, cool and collected, seemed far too comfortable beside Rick. Was this who he really cared about? Had he forgotten about me so quickly? She swallowed, trying to keep her voice steady as she asked in a hoarse, strained tone, "Who is she?"

Before Rick could answer, Jemimah added with an edge of fear in her voice, "Where is your father?"

Rick sighed, knowing Jemimah was worried, and took a step forward, gently placing a hand on her shoulder to calm her. "Hey, listen. There was an accident, but I'm fine, okay? Unharmed. My father... he's in the hospital right now, but don't worry—it's nothing major. Just a minor injury. The doctors said he'll be home soon. And I am sorry I could not call you, my phone is dead, and I don't know about dad. His phone might have been damaged or something during the accident."

Jemimah's eyes widened, the panic easing slightly, but she still looked troubled. Rick continued, his tone reassuring, "This is Sharon Vintner. She's a police officer. The police took my car for inspection, so Sharon was kind enough to give me a ride home."

At the mention of Sharon being a police officer, Jemimah's shoulders relaxed visibly. The tension that had surged through her moments ago dissipated, and she managed a small, relieved smile. Just an officer, she repeated to herself, the knots in her stomach unravelling. She had been worried for nothing. Maybe she was overthinking.

"Oh, okay… well, come in then," Jemimah said softly, stepping aside and opening the door wider. "You both must be tired."

Rick nodded appreciatively and stepped into the house. Sharon followed, her eyes briefly scanning the place, keeping her thoughts guarded behind a polite smile.

As Sharon stepped into the house, her eyes instinctively roamed the space. Rick's father's house, she thought, looks so... normal. It wasn't like the fancy, opulent image she had formed of Rick from his expensive apartment or the luxurious Range Rover. This was just a regular home, with modest furniture, aged walls, and a lived-in feel. There wasn't anything extravagant about it.

A small frown crept across her face. Did his father not know about Rick's money? she wondered. Maybe he didn't care for luxury... or maybe there was something more.

Her thoughts shifted back to their earlier conversation at the hospital. Rick had mentioned how much he despised his father—his drinking, his absence, his neglect of Rick's mother. It was clear their relationship was damaged, and maybe this house was a symbol of that disconnection. That must be it, she concluded.

******