Marriage Named Hatred Chapter 10
At six in the evening, in the lobby of the Ryland Group.
Bastian stepped out of the private elevator, car keys in hand, and prepared to leave.
He had done almost nothing all day, sitting in his office and staring blankly at the computer screen.
He had signed the wrong place three times when signing documents; his assistant had come in twice, and both times he had driven them out.
He did not know what was wrong with him; those letters still lay on the desk in the study.
Every morning before he left, he had glanced at them once, and when he came back at night, he had looked again.
Sometimes, when he could not sleep in the middle of the night, he had gone downstairs and sat at the desk, reading them one by one.
The more he read, the hollower he felt.
Bastian walked toward the entrance with his head lowered when he suddenly heard a burst of commotion from the reception desk.
“I told you, I don’t know any Annelise! If you don’t leave, I’m calling security!”
His steps halted.
A middle-aged man’s voice, edged with urgency, said, “I’m just asking— is she here? I finally managed to find out where she was. I have something important to tell her…”
“Security!”
Bastian lifted his head and saw a man in an old jacket at the reception desk, his hair graying and his face drawn, being dragged outside by two security guards.
When he saw the man’s face, in an instant, blood surged to his scalp.
He recognized him. He had seen that face countless times—in police bulletins, in photos from news reports, in the files he had had people investigate.
The drunk driver who had killed Celestine, sentenced to five years, and who should have just gotten out.
“Wait.”
Bastian’s voice was not loud, but both guards stopped at the same time.
He walked over and looked at the man being held.
The man saw him too, froze for a few seconds, then ventured, “You know her?”
Bastian stared at that face for a long time, then said to the guards, “Let him go. Bring him to my office.”
In the office, Bastian sat on the sofa, and the man sat opposite him.
The assistant brought in two glasses of water, then withdrew and closed the door.
The man spoke first: “I… I don’t know if she’s still here. I just wanted to apologize to her in person. I know an apology is useless, but I…”
“What are you looking for her for?” Bastian cut him off.
The man lowered his head and looked at his rough fingers, his voice very low: “I did five years in there. I couldn’t sleep every day. I know what I did— I took a life. But some things… I have to make them clear. Not the kind of clear I want to make, but…”
He lifted his head and looked at Bastian. “What happened back then wasn’t something I did on my own.”
Bastian’s fingers tightened slightly.
“Someone gave me a sum of money and told me to ‘stage an accident.'” The man’s voice was slow, as if he was remembering, or confirming something. “The target was her younger sister.”
Bastian did not move.
“That person said her sister wanted to steal her boyfriend, and she couldn’t let that happen. She showed me a photo and said, hit this one.”
“I didn’t mean to kill anyone. I just wanted to take the money and do the job. But she gave me too little time. I drank to work up my nerve, and then… I hit the wrong person.”
After he finished, he lowered his head, his shoulders caved in, like someone who had been drained of all strength.
“I did five years, and I couldn’t sleep every day. The one I killed was the person who hired me— what kind of thing was that? I wanted to tell her I’m sorry. That younger sister, she didn’t know anything.”
The office was very quiet, so quiet it was as if no one was there.
Bastian sat there without moving for so long that the man began to lift his head uneasily.
“You just said…” Bastian’s voice was hoarse, as if squeezed from deep in his throat. “The photo she gave you— who was it?”
The man froze, then pulled out his phone, flipped through it a few times, and shook his head.
“The photo was gone a long time ago, but I remember. The one who played the violin— skinny, with pretty eyes.”
So, from beginning to end, it had been Celestine who wanted to hurt Annelise.
And he had spent five years taking revenge on behalf of the killer.
Bastian slumped back onto the sofa, devastated, and said softly, “You should go.”
The man stood up and hesitated. “Then she…”
“She’s not here.” Bastian looked out the window as the city’s lights came on one after another. “You’re too late.”
The man froze, then lowered his head and slowly walked toward the door.
The door opened, then closed.
Only he was left in the office.
He looked out into the night, his churning heart unable to settle for a long time.