Five Years Wasted Now They Beg Her Back novel Chapter 338

Cassian sat on a rickety stool, trying to persuade his father, Mr. Hart.

Ever since the Hart Group had collapsed, he, the so-called "medical genius," had hit a wall everywhere he turned. Forget major hospitals; even small clinics wouldn't hire him.

"Here's a picture of Lucian inside!"

Cassian shoved his phone screen in Mr. Hart's face. "Look! This is your other son! Beaten black and blue, not even getting enough to eat! An inmate who just got out told me that everyone knows he's Grace's brother, so they find new ways to torture him every day to curry favor with the Clarkes!"

The photo was from Amelia. It was, of course, photoshopped.

Mr. Hart's hands trembled violently. In the picture, Lucian was huddled in a corner, his face bloody, his eyes filled with terror.

"Lucian… my son…" Tears streamed down Mr. Hart's aged face, and his heart clenched with pain.

He had always doted on his two sons and his youngest daughter, Lilian.

As for Grace? That jinx. She had been bad luck for him since the day she was born. If it weren't for her, how could the Hart family have ended up in this state?

"Ms. Cross said," Cassian whispered, his eyes dark and sinister, "that if you're willing to step up and do as she says, she can not only get Lucian out early but also give us a huge sum of money. She'll send us abroad. We could even make a comeback!"

"Really?" Mr. Hart looked up, hardly daring to believe it.

"Dad, do we have any other choice right now?"

Cassian glanced around the dilapidated room. In the corner was a pile of his father's old paintings and calligraphy that he hadn't yet sold off—the last remnants of Mr. Hart's dignity.

But could dignity put food on the table? In the past few months, between paying for Lilian's lawyers and settling debts, they could barely afford to eat.

"Let's do it!"

Mr. Hart gritted his teeth, the muscles in his face twitching. "I brought her into this world, and I can destroy her! Trying to climb to the top by stepping on the Hart family's bones? In her dreams!"

That evening, Amelia's personal assistant delivered a costume.

It wasn't a high-end suit, but an old, worn-out jacket and a pair of tattered canvas shoes.

"Mr. Hart," the assistant said with a smile that didn't reach his eyes, "Ms. Cross said that for tomorrow's press conference, the more pathetic you look, the better. The script is ready for you. All you have to do is read it, or… feel free to give us your best performance."

Mr. Hart felt a wave of humiliation as he touched the ragged jacket, but the thought of the check that was coming his way made him swallow his pride.

"Don't worry," Mr. Hart sneered, a glint of cunning in his eyes. "No one knows that damned girl's weak spot better than I do."