Chapter 672 Death
Dreamscape Peak Beach.
Michael, who had just lost both of his parents, sat alone on the sand.
A little girl with a ponytail ran over, sat beside him, and watched the sunset with him. She handed him a colorful seashell. "Don't cry, this is for you."
In return, he gave the girl a bright red string. And now, that very string was tied around Celeste's wrist.
"This is..." Michael felt like he had been struck by lightning. He trembled as he touched the string, his voice choked with emotion. "This is the one I gave you at Dreamscape Peak, isn't it?"
Celeste weakly nodded, tears mixed with blood streaming down her face. "You finally remember."
In the speeding car, Michael frantically dialed Emma's number. "Back at Dreamscape Peak Beach, did you ever give me a seashell?"
On the other end, Emma's voice was firm. "Michael, I don't know why you keep insisting that I gave you a seashell. But I really don't want to lie to you. My answer is still no, I never did. I only gave a seashell to George. Michael, you have the wrong person. This is the last time we'll speak. Goodbye, no, never see you again."
The phone slipped from Michael's hand. He clutched his head in agony, finally realizing the terrible mistake he had made.
The person he had been fixated on all these years was never Emma.
The one he had hurt the most was the one he should have cherished.
"Drive faster!" Michael shouted at the driver, turning to see Celeste's pupils starting to dilate.
"Celeste, look at me." He held her face, his voice trembling uncontrollably. "Please don't die. I was wrong, I was really wrong..."
He kissed her cold fingertips, his tears falling on her pale face. "I love you. I've always loved you."
Michael knelt in the hallway, his expensive suit stained with blood, his usually neat hair in disarray. He cried like a helpless child, a far cry from the ruthless man he once was.
The light in the operating room stayed on all night.
When dawn broke through the clouds, the light went out.
The doctor removed his mask and shook his head at Michael. "Mr. Russell, I'm sorry. We did everything we could."
"Did everything?" Michael stood up abruptly, his fingers digging into his palms, blood dripping onto the pristine floor tiles. "I told you to save her! Don't you understand English?"
He lunged forward, trying to overturn the surgical cart, but was stopped by a nurse. His gaze fell on the figure covered by a white sheet on the operating table. The sight of that pale form burned into him like a red-hot brand, making his insides feel like they were on fire.
Celeste's funeral was extremely simple.
No ceremony, no guests, just white chrysanthemums that Michael had personally chosen, arranged around the gravestone. In the photo, she wore a light-colored dress, her ponytail slightly askew, her eyes sparkling with laughter. It was a photo he had always treasured, taken before she met him, before hatred consumed her.
"I used to think your smile wasn't dignified enough," Michael whispered, crouching in front of the gravestone, his fingers gently brushing over her smiling face in the photo, his voice rough as sandpaper. "Now I know, your smile was the most beautiful thing."
The wind swept fallen leaves across his shoes. He stared at the name "Celeste" on the gravestone and suddenly laughed softly. As he laughed, tears fell onto the cold stone.
Back at the mansion overlooking Sunterra Harbor, Michael's men were waiting in the living room. The long mahogany table was surrounded by people, their eyes filled with anxiety and dissatisfaction through the haze of smoke.
"Michael, are you really going to stop all the shipments at the harbor? That's half a year's profit!" The speaker, a loyal subordinate of ten years, crushed his cigar in frustration. "And the Seraphim channels, how many men died to secure those? You can't just shut it all down with a word!"
Michael ignored him, walking straight to the floor-to-ceiling window. His reflection in the glass showed a suit still sharp, but it couldn't hide the emptiness in his eyes. He remembered Celeste's words: "Michael, don't you feel the blood money burning in your hands?"
Back then, he dismissed it as a woman's naivety. Now he understood, she wasn't afraid of the money burning; she was afraid of him walking down a path of no return.
"Do it." His voice was as calm as a still pond. "Clean up all illegal channels within three days. The legitimate businesses go to a trust fund, shares distributed among you as severance."
"Michael!" Another man slammed the table and stood up. "Are you crazy? Celeste is gone, but we are still here! This empire was built with your blood and sweat. How can you just dismantle it?"
"How?" Michael turned, his gaze sweeping over the room. The faces that once bowed to him now showed greed and betrayal. "Because it's what she would have wanted."
"Celeste is dead! Why take a dead person's words seriously?" someone growled. "If you don't want to do this anymore, we still need to eat!"
That sentence pierced through his forced calm like a needle.
Michael suddenly laughed, a laugh tinged with the taste of blood. "Eat? What are you eating? The blood of those whose lives you destroyed, the bullet that killed Celeste!"
He swept the documents off the table, papers flying everywhere. He walked step by step towards the man who had spoken, the ferocity in his eyes making the man instinctively retreat.
"I've never been afraid of rebellion in all my years," he said, gripping the man's jaw, his knuckles white. "But don't forget who gave you your lives. Want to rebel? Fine."
He released the man, pulled a gun from his coat, and tossed it onto the table. "Anyone who wants to be the boss, pick up the gun and point it at me now."
The room fell silent. The gun gleamed coldly, like a snake ready to strike.
Michael didn't bother with their silent standoff, retreating to the inner room to give them space to think.
Soon, muffled sounds came from outside, followed by the thud of bodies hitting the floor. Michael frowned, barely reacting before a man in a black trench coat entered, carrying two blood-soaked bags, which he dropped on the floor.
"Michael," the man removed his sunglasses, revealing a scarred face. "The southern subordinates tried to seize territory with outsiders while you were dissolving the business. I've dealt with them."
Two bloody heads rolled out of the bags, the very men who had been the loudest earlier.
Michael looked at the blood on the floor, his stomach churning. He suddenly felt exhausted, too tired to even lift his hand.
"Clean this up." He waved a hand, his voice weary. "Tell everyone, those who want to leave, take the money and go. Those who stay, help me clean up the remaining mess. Anyone who dares to rebel again, this will face their fate."
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