CHAPTER 203: CHAPTER TWO HUNDRED AND THREE

The world returned to Baron Edgar in a painful rush of light and sound. The coarse, musty-smelling sack was harshly ripped from his head, and he was left blinking, his eyes stinging from the sudden brightness of a single oil lamp. The air was cold and damp. He was seated on a rickety, uncomfortable chair, the kind one might find in a forgotten cellar.

As his vision swam and then focused, the scene before him solidified. He was in a small, bare room. Across a simple wooden desk, a woman was sitting calmly, her legs crossed elegantly at the ankle. She was adjusting the fit of her fine, silk gloves, her movements slow and graceful.

"Augusta," he said, his voice a dry, hoarse rasp from his earlier, muffled shouts in the carriage. He tried to stand, but a firm hand on each of his shoulders pushed him back down into the chair. He looked to his side. The two large, silent men who had dragged him from the carriage stood over him like stone statues.

Augusta looked up from her gloves, a sweet, condescending smile playing on her lips. "You really gave Lord Burton a difficult time, father," she said, her voice a pleasant, musical tune that was horribly out of place in the grim surroundings.

"You really have..."

Augusta cut him off with a soft, mocking chuckle. "Playing hide and seek with your daughter-in-law, were you not?" she asked. "You are very good at it. But the game is over now." Her smile widened. "You got caught, father."

"You won’t get away with this," He growled.

" Oh, but I just did." She smiled.

Edgar fell silent, his jaw tight with a cold, contained fury. He assessed his situation. He was old, outnumbered, and trapped. But he was not beaten. He would never be beaten by this woman.

Augusta gently pushed a single sheet of parchment across the surface of the desk. A freshly filled inkwell and a quill sat beside it. The legal, official look of the document was a strange and insulting sight in this room.

"What is this?" Edgar asked, his eyes flicking from the paper to her face.

"It is a formality," Augusta replied smoothly. "Something to make everything neat and tidy." She looked at the paper, then back at him, her eyes gleaming in the lamplight. "You have been so worried about your granddaughter, Delia. But you have been neglecting your real granddaughter, Anne. You should be giving everything to her."

She paused then answered his question. "It is a letter of transfer for all of your assets, your shares in the company, your properties. Everything. Sign it."

Edgar looked at the paper, then at her. He saw the cold, greedy ambition in her eyes. It was an ambition that had no limits, no morality.

"If I sign it," he said, his voice steady, "will you spare Henry and Delia? Will you leave them alone?"

Augusta tilted her head, considering his question as if it were a mild curiosity. "That depends on what you do, father," she said, her answer a silken threat. She offered him no promises, no guarantees. She offered him only a choice between compliance and the unknown.

Edgar’s gaze did not waver. He reached out a steady hand and picked up the quill. He dipped its sharp tip into the dark ink. He hesitated for a moment, the quill hovering over the parchment. He looked at the two large men who stood by his side, their faces impassive. He then looked at Augusta. She raised her eyebrows slightly, a triumphant smirk beginning to form on her lips as she held his gaze.

With a firm, deliberate hand, Edgar signed his name at the bottom of the letter. The scratching of the quill was the only sound in the tense room. He was done. He picked up the signed document and held it out to Augusta.

She leaned forward to take it, her eyes shining with victory. But just as her gloved fingers were about to touch the parchment, Edgar retracted his hand.

Augusta’s smile faltered. She looked at him, confused. "What are you doing?"

In one swift, decisive motion, Edgar tore the paper in half. And then in half again. The sound of ripping paper was like a gunshot in the silent room. He didn’t stop until the legal document was nothing but a pile of useless scraps in his hand.

"WHAT ARE YOU DOING?" Augusta screamed, her voice losing its sweet tune and becoming a shrill cry of fury. She shot up from her chair, her own control shattering. "You old fool!" She rushed around the desk to stop him, but it was too late. The deed was done.

As she got to his side, her face contorted with rage, Edgar saw his chance. He was old but not useless. He lunged from the chair, a sudden, explosive movement that took everyone by surprise. He wrapped both of his hands around Augusta’s neck.

"I swear to the heavens, Augusta," he snarled, his face inches from hers. "If you ever touch my children, if you lay a single finger on Henry or Delia, I will kill you first."

The two men, shocked into action, grabbed at Edgar, trying to separate them. Augusta clawed at his hands, her eyes wide with a mixture of shock and outrage.

"Do you understand me?" Edgar roared, his grip tightening.

Augusta’s voice was a choked, struggling gasp. "How funny," she wheezed. "How are you going to pull that off, old man?"

The insult only fueled his rage. He tightened his grip again, cutting off her air. Augusta’s voice was now high and strained, a panicked squeak. "Let me go! Let me go, you madman! Do you really want to die?"

"Yes!" Edgar roared back, his eyes blazing with fire. "I will die! But if something happens to me, you think I will go to hell alone? I am taking you with me, Augusta! I’m taking you, and I am pushing you into the fire first!"

Finally, with a great heave, the two men were able to tear Edgar’s hands from her neck. The force of their pull sent the old man reeling backward, and he fell hard from the rickety chair onto the cold, stone floor.

Augusta stumbled back, her hands flying to her neck. She coughed and gasped for air, her face flushed a dark red. There were angry red marks on her skin where his fingers had been. She looked down at the old man on the floor, who was now being held down by one of the men. The condescending smirk was gone, replaced by a look of genuine fear and hatred.

"Crazy old man," she hissed as she slapped him, her voice a raw, ugly sound. She took a moment to compose herself, smoothing down her dress and adjusting her gloves, though her hands were trembling. She turned to the two men.

"Keep an eye on him," she commanded, her voice still shaky. "Don’t let him out of your sight. And don’t let him escape."

The men answered in unison, their voices rough. "Yes, Baroness."