Chapter 191
Asher stood outside the door, listening for a moment before deciding not to enter. The sky was overcast, with a fine, persistent rain beginning to fall. Walking to the hospital entrance, Asher gazed up at the oppressive sky, his thoughts drifting. He and Thalia likely had no future together. Andrew, his father, only fifty-two years old, was about to leave this world.
When Asher was five, the scandal of Andrew’s illegitimate child had erupted. His mother had fought bitterly for a divorce, but ultimately, under pressure from both families’ elders, the marriage had endured. At five, Asher was already forming lasting memories; the painful ones had taken root in his heart. He vividly remembered all the humiliation his mother had suffered, the image of her hiding in their room to cry, every argument between his parents, and the disgust that occasionally flickered in Andrew’s eyes. He knew Andrew didn’t love his mother—and didn’t love him either. Asher had never experienced paternal affection growing up. Throughout his life, his relationship with Andrew had remained distant. He had assumed he wouldn’t be affected when Andrew died. Yet, now that the moment approached, he discovered he wasn’t as indifferent as he’d expected.
Nearby, a middle-aged man hurried toward the hospital entrance, holding a small boy in one arm and an umbrella in the other. Soon, the man reached Asher’s side. At the hospital entrance, the man closed his umbrella and spoke softly to the child: “Don’t cry, love. Daddy’s taking you to see the doctor. You’ll feel better soon.”
Something twisted in Asher’s chest. His gaze remained fixed on them, impossible to tear away. The little boy seemed only a year or two old, so small and vulnerable. The man wore the dark blue uniform of a factory worker, the company name embroidered on his chest. Asher noticed the man’s hands—rough, darkened by work, covered in calluses. Yet these weathered hands held the child with incredible tenderness, radiating profound paternal love. His face, marked by life’s hardships, showed nothing but concern and worry. Such an expression had rarely appeared on Andrew’s face. No, that wasn’t entirely true.
The year Andrew had brought Malfoy back to England, begging his parents to accept the boy into the family. They had refused, not even allowing them inside. Andrew had knelt at the door with Malfoy, refusing to leave. The weather that day had been similar to today’s: oppressively gloomy and suffocating. Rain had begun to fall. Andrew had removed his coat to cover Malfoy’s head, shielding him from the elements. But Malfoy had still been drenched, caught a chill, and developed a fever. Andrew’s worried expression had mirrored this father’s exactly. Asher watched silently, a dull ache spreading through his chest. The man hurried inside with his child. Asher returned his gaze to the curtain of rain before him. A few young women nearby blushed as they stole glances at him, whispering among themselves. Asher remained oblivious to their attention. He stepped forward into the pouring rain.
That night, at Asher’s compound. “Sir, we’ve located Fiona Malfoy’s grave,” Lucas reported quietly, standing before Asher. “Tom Malfoy constructed a special memorial for her in a remote village in Chernov, Russia.” Lucas handed Asher a document folder. “This village was where Fiona and Tom first settled when they arrived in Russia. They lived there for five years, and Fiona died there.”
Asher opened the folder. It contained numerous photographs—pictures of the small wooden cabin where they had lived, along with some old photographs of Tom and Fiona Malfoy. Lucas continued: “This cabin was their home. Malfoy has maintained it all these years, employing locals to keep it clean.” “According to the caretaker, cremation is customary in that region. After Fiona’s death, the villagers cremated her. Malfoy collected some of her ashes and established a memorial. At the time, he lacked the resources to build a proper gravesite. The current memorial was constructed later—a cenotaph containing some of Fiona’s clothing and jewelry.”
“Though Malfoy traveled extensively over the years, Fiona’s ashes remained in the cabin, under constant guard. He returns every year on her birthday and death anniversary to pay his respects.” “Has the grave been examined?” Asher asked, his tone deceptively casual, though a keen observer would have noticed the cold, predatory gleam in his eyes. Lucas nodded. “Yes, it’s confirmed to be a cenotaph.” “And Fiona’s ashes?” Asher inquired, his dark eyes swirling with indecipherable emotion. “We’ve retrieved them.” Lucas gestured to one of his men. The man quickly left and returned moments later carrying a dark urn. Lucas took the urn from his subordinate. “Sir, these are Fiona Malfoy’s ashes.”
Asher stared at the container, his eyes as deep and unfathomable as the ocean. Over twenty years ago, Fiona had confronted his mother—who had barely recovered from childbirth—with her pregnancy, driving Catherine to postpartum depression and nearly causing her to jump from a window. She had thrown the Blackwood household into chaos. Two decades later, her son had brought similar devastation to both families. Everything Malfoy had done to the Winters and Blackwood families had been for revenge; all to avenge Fiona.
If Malfoy was so filial, learning that his mother’s grave had been disturbed would surely cause him immense pain, wouldn’t it? He had nearly killed Thalia and had instructed Grace to poison Andrew. Would it be excessive, then, to scatter his mother’s ashes before his eyes? A cold smile curved Asher’s lips. “I want to see Malfoy.”
After making the necessary arrangements and completing the required procedures, Asher was granted access to Malfoy. Malfoy remained in custody, awaiting the court’s verdict. His case was complex, involving multiple serious crimes beyond attempted murder. The Blackwood family had exerted considerable pressure, specifically requesting that Malfoy’s case be thoroughly investigated and severely prosecuted. Now, in a small, dimly lit interrogation room, Malfoy sat across from Asher, his hands cuffed and his ankles shackled.