Chapter 611 Search
Her phone buzzed, and a message popped up: [George has been granted access to the hotel.]
"Finally," she chuckled softly, dialing another number. "Is everything ready?"
A deep male voice responded on the other end, "All set. Once they step into the hotel, there's no way out."
Wanda hung up and walked to the window, looking down at the bustling city below.
"Emma, this time you won't be so lucky."
At the Russell Villa, in the study.
Michael sat in the shadows, his fingers tapping lightly on the desk. The butler entered quietly, "Mr. Russell, Ms. Phillips is no longer at Dreamscape Peak."
Michael paused, "Where did she go?"
"We're not sure, and Mr. Baker is missing too."
Michael's eyes turned icy cold.
"Find her," he said, rising slowly, his voice dangerously soft. "Search every inch if you have to, but bring her back."
The butler bowed and left, leaving the study in silence once more.
Michael walked to the window, gazing at the distant rose garden... Celeste's favorite place.
"Celeste, you better not disappoint me."
At the entrance of the Starlight Hotel.
Emma held onto George's arm as they walked into the lobby, looking like any ordinary couple.
"The top floor requires your fingerprint authorization," the receptionist smiled, handing over an electronic screen.
George pressed his finger to the screen, and it lit up green. "Welcome back, Mr. Russell."
As the elevator ascended, Emma whispered, "What do you think Wanda has planned?"
George stared ahead, his voice calm, "Whatever it is, she won't get away with it."
The elevator stopped, and the doors opened slowly...
At the end of the hallway, Wanda leaned against the doorframe, a smirk on her red lips. "Long time no see, you two."
Behind her stood a dozen bodyguards, each holding a gun.
Meanwhile, a black sedan sped down the highway.
Celeste sat in the back seat, her face pale. "Zachary, where are you taking me?"
Zachary glanced at her in the rearview mirror, unusually serious. "Away from here, as far as possible."
Wanda's smile widened in triumph as she waved her hand. "Seize them."
But the bodyguards didn't move an inch.
"Are you deaf?" Wanda snapped, turning around, only to see the lead bodyguard remove his sunglasses, revealing a familiar face—George's personal guard, Ulysses.
"Sorry, Ms. Salazar," Ulysses said, his face expressionless. "We only take orders from Mr. Russell."
Wanda's face turned ashen, her meticulously painted nails digging into her palms. "Since when..."
"Since the day you hired them," George said, stepping forward, his voice as cold as ice. "Did you really think I'd let you run wild on my turf?"
Emma stood by his side, her gaze sharp and fixed on Wanda. "The game's over."
Wanda suddenly burst into laughter, a crazed edge to her voice. "Over? You're so naive!"
She pressed a button on her watch, and the lights on the entire floor went out. In the darkness, the sound of hurried footsteps echoed from the emergency exit.
"Mr. Russell, watch out!" Ulysses shouted.
A dozen armed men stormed the hallway, bullets whizzing past George's ear. He pulled Emma behind him, and they quickly retreated to a corner.
"They're not ours!" Ulysses yelled over the gunfire.
Wanda dashed for the elevator, but George grabbed her wrist at the last second. She slashed at him with her nails, leaving a bloody mark on his face.
"George," she suddenly softened her voice, tears welling up in her eyes. "Do you really have to be so heartless?"
For a moment, George hesitated.
In that instant, he saw Emma from the past, begging him to spare her.
That brief hesitation allowed Wanda to press the emergency button on the elevator.
The fire sprinkler system activated, and through the water curtain, three masked men crashed through the window, ropes securing around Wanda's waist.
"Michael's men!" Emma tried to rush forward, but George held her back firmly.
With the sound of shattering glass, Wanda was pulled towards the window. She looked back one last time, her eyes filled with venom as they locked onto Emma. "You'll never beat me."
The sound of helicopter blades faded into the distance, leaving the hallway in disarray.
"Search," George said, wiping the blood from his face, his voice hoarse.
The presidential suite was filled with a strong perfume scent. Emma opened the closet, finding a row of designer dresses with a single men's suit hanging among them—one George used to wear often.
The vanity drawer was stuffed with photos: George giving a speech in a conference room, swinging a golf club, even drinking alone late at night. Each photo was meticulously cut, the edges worn from repeated handling.
"Freak," Emma muttered, tossing the album aside, but froze on the next page.
It was a photoshopped image of her, made to look like a black-and-white obituary, a knife through her chest, and a large red X drawn over it with lipstick.
George snatched the album, his knuckles white. "She's asking for it."
The desk drawer required a password. Emma tried George's birthday, and it opened.
Inside was a thick stack of hospital records: Emma's prenatal checkups, photos of Seraphine, all defaced with red pen, the words "Die, bastard" scrawled beside them.
"She..." Emma's voice trembled, "She even went after the baby."
George suddenly kicked over the coffee table. Amid the sound of shattering glass, he pulled Emma into his arms, his hand pressing against the back of her head. "I won't let anyone hurt you again."
The Russell Villa was brightly lit but eerily silent.
Celeste stood outside the iron gates, her fingers gripping her bag strap tightly. She never thought she'd return here, but when she got the call about Michael being ill, her heart ached. She had sent Zachary away on purpose, walking step by step towards this mansion that felt like a prison.
"Ms. Phillips," the butler stood at the door, a hesitant look on his face. "Mr. Russell isn't doing well."
Celeste's heart sank.
As she pushed open the bedroom door, the strong scent of alcohol hit her. Michael was half-leaning on the sofa, his shirt collar open, revealing a scar on his collarbone. He held a half-burned cigarette between his fingers, his eyes bloodshot through the haze of smoke.
"You're back?" His voice was hoarse, as if it had been scraped with sandpaper.
Celeste's throat tightened. "You're hurt?"
Michael let out a low laugh, extinguishing the cigarette in a glass of whiskey. "Just a scratch."
But Celeste could see the blood-soaked bandage on his right wrist, the bloody gauze, and empty bottles scattered on the coffee table.
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