From Terrorist Cell to Diamond Prison

Chapter 29

Fiona's eyes burned with a furious intensity as she glared at Luke.

"Can you give me his love?" she demanded, her voice dripping with bitterness. She quickly turned her gaze toward Rosalie, her words sharp and venomous. "And if I want her life, what can you do about it?"

The tension in the room was thick, and Harold scrambled to intervene. "Fiona, stop this! He's just one man. Is he really worth destroying your whole future for?"

But Fiona's grip on Rosalie tightened, her face contorting with rage. The knife in her hand caught the light, its tip grazing Rosalie's neck, leaving small, crimson marks.

"I can't just let this go!" Fiona screamed, dragging Rosalie further down the stairs. Her voice cracked with unchecked fury. "Why does she get everything? Why is her life so perfect, just like her mother's was?!"

She stopped abruptly, her gaze locking onto Rosalie with a fierce, almost animalistic intensity. Her voice dropped to a cold, venomous whisper. "We got rid of her mother back then. Why can't I finish what we started and end her life now?"

The room went deadly silent. Everyone stood frozen, their faces filled with horror.

"Fiona, stop!" Harold shouted, his voice shaking. "You're losing it! Do you even hear yourself?"

But Fiona only sneered, her tone mocking and sharp. "What? Are you scared now? There's no one here to stop me. If Rosalie dies, Mitchell Enterprises will be mine. All of it."

Her hands trembled as she gripped Rosalie tighter. "If I can't have what I want," she said, her voice breaking, "then at least I can make sure, Harold, that you get what you want."

With a crazed look in her eyes, she raised the knife high, its blade gleaming dangerously.

Before she could strike, the windows and doors suddenly burst open. Police stormed in, shouting orders as the chaos reached its peak. The knife never fell.

Luke lunged forward, intercepting the blade with his bare hand. The sharp edge plunged straight through his palm, blood spilling out immediately. He didn't flinch, his gaze locked on Rosalie.

"Run!" he shouted, his voice cutting through the panic.

Fiona fought against Luke as the officers rushed to restrain her, her screams echoing through the room as they wrestled her to the ground.

Rosalie stood frozen, her breath shallow, as the nightmare around her slowly unraveled. Luke's hand was a bloody mess, but his eyes never left her until Fiona was fully subdued.

At the hospital, Rosalie refused to leave Luke's side. She clung to his uninjured hand, tears streaming down her face as the doctor examined him.

The doctor's words hit her like a blow. "The injury is severe. There's a chance he may never regain full use of his hand."

Tears blurred Rosalie's vision. "His hands..." she whispered, her voice trembling. "He needs them, for appraising jewels, for carving..." Her words faltered as sobs overtook her.

Mr. Fitzgerald, standing nearby, pulled her into a comforting embrace. "It'll be okay," he murmured, though the uncertainty in his voice was unmistakable.

After surgery, Luke woke to find the doctor standing by his bedside. With a weak but steady grip, he grabbed the doctor's arm.

"Don't tell them how bad it is," he said firmly.

The doctor hesitated, then nodded reluctantly. "Alright. But you need to know, this hand may never function the same again."

Luke glanced down at his heavily bandaged hand, a wry smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "Trading one hand for her life... I'd say that's more than fair."

When Rosalie saw him awake, she rushed to his side, guilt etched into every line of her face. "Luke," she choked out. "I'm so sorry. This is all my fault."

Luke smiled faintly, trying to ease her guilt. "I told you, I'm fine. Stop worrying."

But Rosalie couldn't let go of the blame weighing on her. She hadn't intended for him to get hurt or for Fiona's madness to spiral so far. The truth was, it had all been part of her plan. Mr. Fitzgerald's research into Fiona's unstable behavior had been clear: under enough pressure, Fiona would snap.

Rosalie had set the trap, orchestrating a confrontation that would force Fiona to reveal the truth about her mother's death. The police had been on standby, ready to intervene. But none of them had anticipated how far Fiona would go.

The confrontation wasn't over yet. Days later, Robert Mitchell, Rosalie's grandfather, appeared at the police station. Fiona sat in a holding cell, her manic energy replaced by cold, hollow defiance.

When she spotted Robert, her expression twisted in fear. Her voice wavered, barely above a whisper. "A ghost... A ghost!"

Rosalie stood beside her grandfather, her posture rigid as she stared Fiona down. She took a step closer to the glass separating them.

"Take a good look," she said, her voice steady and low. "Is he a ghost? Or isn't he?"

Fiona's face drained of color, her words spilling out in a panicked rush. "How... How are you still alive? You... You should've been dead by now!"

Robert's face hardened, his eyes burning with long-buried rage. His voice cut through the tense silence like a knife. "So it's true. You really did wish me dead. If I had known this would be the result, and if I'd known you would harm my daughter, I would never have adopted you."