Chapter 3
Jane's POV
In the two months since our wedding, I had searched almost every corner of Morrison's mansion but couldn't find any concrete evidence about Sarah's death. And because of Morrison's damn vigilance, I had to carefully time each search, making sure to leave no trace.
Today, I was cleaning his study. As I carefully wiped items in his desk drawer, I discovered a picture frame meticulously wrapped in velvet cloth. Inside was a yellowed baby photo, seemingly taken about twenty years ago. On the back was a date and a blurry initial: "T."
Morrison had a child? He'd never mentioned one, but this photo obviously held special meaning for him. I memorized the date and returned the frame to its place. This might be an important clue.
Before she died, Sarah had told me Morrison kept a secret safe that might contain evidence of his crimes. But where was this safe? What password did it require? I knew nothing. As time passed, I grew increasingly anxious, though outwardly, I had to play the role of the perfect wife.
Crystal chandeliers sparkled overhead at the club, illuminating the impeccably dressed scholars below. I clung to Morrison's arm, wearing an elegant dark green velvet evening gown, standing gracefully at the center of the crowd. This was my first time attending such an important academic dinner as Mrs. Morrison.
"Jane, you look beautiful in that dress," Morrison whispered in my ear, his arm wrapped tightly around my waist, almost constricting my breathing.
I nodded with a smile, my peripheral vision scanning the hall, noticing several young female students gazing at us—or more precisely, at Morrison—with admiration. His gaze, too, occasionally lingered on those young faces, especially on the girl in the white dress who reminded me of Sarah, and of someone else who had once been the most important person in my life...
Damn it, don't cry, Jane. I bit my lower lip, fighting back tears.
"Jane!" An older professor's wife approached, interrupting my painful memories. "You're so lucky, James is so good to you."
I offered a gentle smile. "Yes, I'm grateful to have such a husband. He's taught me so many things."
Morrison squeezed my waist, wearing a smug smile. "Jane is the most intelligent and beautiful woman I've ever met. I'm the lucky one."
When Morrison was pulled away by senior professors to discuss research funding, I seized the opportunity. Champagne glass in hand, I began circulating through the ballroom. I knew this was a perfect chance to gather information—these elite academics, under the influence of alcohol and vanity, often let their guard down.
I noticed Associate Professor Parker standing in a corner, whispering with two colleagues. Parker was one of Morrison's closest associates; if anyone knew inside information, it would be him. I casually approached the bar, pretending to select a drink while straining to listen.
"What about that Asian student?" an unfamiliar voice asked.
"Whitney? Good choice," Parker's voice carried a hint of intoxication. "Young, smart, and she worships you. Remember to give Morrison a heads-up. The usual arrangement."
"What's the usual arrangement?"
Parker chuckled. "Keep the recordings as insurance. This kind of thing needs... protection."
My champagne glass nearly slipped from my hand. Recordings? Insurance? My stomach cramped. This wasn't just Morrison's crime but a dark network built on power and desire. That Asian girl, Whitney, was the next potential victim.
Just as I tried to hear more details, Parker suddenly turned around, almost face-to-face with me. My heart skipped a beat. In my panic, I pretended to stumble, spilling champagne on my dress.
"Oh!" I exclaimed, deliberately slurring my words. "I think... I've had too much..."
Parker immediately reached out to steady me, his hand deliberately sliding toward my hip. "Mrs. Morrison, are you alright? Would you like me to help you find somewhere to rest?"
His hands grew bolder, and I suppressed my disgust, continuing my drunk act. "I think... I need James..."
"Morrison is busy," Parker leaned close to my ear, his fingers trailing along my bare back. "Let me help clean you up..."
Just then, Morrison's ice-cold voice came from behind. "Parker, I believe my wife needs MY assistance."
Parker immediately released me, his face showing an awkward smile. "James, of course, I was just..."
"I know exactly what you were doing," Morrison's tone was calm but his eyes full of threat. He grabbed my shoulder, pulling me away from Parker. "We're going home, Jane."
It was nearly midnight when we returned to Morrison's mansion, the living room lit only by the flickering fireplace. I had barely slipped off my high heels when Morrison's accusatory voice sounded behind me.
"Jane, what were you talking about with that new assistant professor tonight?"
I turned around, answering carefully. "Just normal social conversation, James. I didn't say anything inappropriate."
"What about Parker?" he pressed aggressively. "You two looked very cozy."
"I accidentally had too much to drink and almost fell. He just steadied me," I explained. "You saw me call for you right away."
He approached me, the smile completely gone from his face. "Really? Then why did I see you hovering around the bar for so long earlier? What were you eavesdropping on?"
My heart raced—he had noticed. "I don't know what you're talking about," I said softly. "I was just looking for champagne that wasn't so sweet."
Morrison suddenly grabbed my wrist, his grip painfully tight. "Remember, your name is Morrison now. Your every move reflects on my reputation. If I catch you being flirtatious with other men again, you'll face the consequences."
His nails dug into my skin, bringing tears to my eyes. But I knew this was just the beginning of his display of control. Morrison enjoyed seeing me afraid, just as he enjoyed the suffering of all his victims.
That GODDAMN bastard!
"I'm sorry, James," I lowered my head submissively. "I'll be more careful in the future."
Only then did he release my hand, hypocritically soothing me, "I just love you too much. I don't want anyone coveting what's mine."
As he turned to go upstairs, I rubbed my reddened wrist, the fear in my eyes slowly replaced by cold determination. Tonight's eavesdropping had been dangerous, but it had confirmed one thing—Morrison and his colleagues were indeed keeping some kind of evidence.