Chapter 388

Stella Valentine's wrist trembled violently, nearly knocking over the water glass on the table. "Your mother brought me here."

Vincent Atlante's gaze swept over the elderly couple on the bed, irritation flashing in his eyes. "I didn't tie you up only because your wrist is injured. Stay put. I could find my way around these mountains blindfolded."

Stella pressed her lips together.

Though she had been unconscious during the journey, it had been noon when they left Houston Grand Hotel. Now the sun was setting—they must have traveled for at least five or six hours. Over two hundred kilometers of mountain roads made escape impossible.

"Vincent, don't be so harsh," the old man rasped. "With our family's situation, any girl willing to be with you is a blessing."

Vincent scoffed and pulled a tube of ointment from his pocket, tossing it to Stella. "Burn ointment. You'll need those hands for your designs."

Stella froze. "You—"

"Enough." He cut her off sharply, kicking open the rickety wooden door with a screech.

"Don't be afraid, dear. Vincent just has a sharp tongue," the old man coughed. "He's never been good with words."

The mute woman beside him nodded vigorously.

"Have you... seen a doctor?"

"We have." The old man smiled bitterly. "We've been everywhere—Houston, even the capital. Vincent spent every penny he earned, but this illness..." He shook his head. "It's a bottomless pit."

Stella's heart clenched.

Now she understood why Vincent had chosen this moment for revenge.

These two were his only tether to the world. With their time running out, he had nothing left to lose.

"Uncle Vincent..."

"My surname is Lee," the old man sighed. "Vincent knew he wasn't our biological son by the time he was five or six. That boy has always been too clever..."

Stella tightened her grip on the ointment. Finally, she recognized the source of the emptiness in Vincent's eyes—it wasn't hatred, but the void of being abandoned by the entire world.

Outside, Vincent chewed on a blade of grass, staring at the sky.

"I'll let you go," he said abruptly. "But not now."

"Why?"

He smirked. "Do all rich people ask stupid questions? I show mercy, and you demand reasons?"

Stella stepped beside him. "I thought you'd hate me more."

"Hate you?" He spat out the grass. "Rape you first, then kill you?"

"At least you wouldn't have specifically..." She waved the ointment.

"Told you I didn't buy it." Vincent narrowed his eyes. "Just picked it up along the way."

"Stole it?"

"The clerk chased me halfway down the street." He pointed to the black Lexus outside. "See that? Adrian Roland's car. This face has its perks—the hotel handed over the keys without a fuss."

License plate 0826—her birthday.

"Heard he had a garage full of Porsches?" Vincent asked suddenly.

"Sold them."

"For you?"

Stella's breath hitched.

Vincent laughed. "Stella, you've changed."

"What?"

"You still love him." He turned, his shadow engulfing her. "Or you wouldn't instinctively defend him. Women..."

The evening wind scattered dried leaves as Stella clenched the ointment in her hand.

The stolen burn cream burned her palm like fire.