In the pouring rain of a late night, the cold pierced through my coat, chilling me to the bone.
I stood holding an umbrella by the side entrance of the police station, the drainage ditch underfoot already submerged in standing water.
Julian Sterling knelt on the steps, his lips ashen, looking as if he’d just been dragged out of a frozen lake.
He had been kneeling there for three days and three nights.
The police station lights blazed, and passing officers, feeling a flicker of sympathy for the once–prominent figure, regarded him with complex expressions.
I observed him from the rain, my gaze cold and detached, his utterly defeated figure reflected in the umbrella.
Three months ago, the Sterling Antiques scandal became the laughingstock of the entire industry.
A storm instantly erupted, and the Sterling family’s three–generation Arts Foundation became the target of public outrage.
Grandpa Sterling was under investigation, all Sterling family antiques were sealed overnight, and the police demanded a full investigation within three days, or their assets would be seized.
Only I knew who the true mastermind behind it all was.
The rain fell harder, and the standing water quickly rose past his knees.
Julian Sterling never looked at me, simply maintaining his mechanical, desperate pose.
“Stella.”
After a long while, he finally called out my name, his voice trembling, filled only with despair.
I leaned in, holding my umbrella, my eyes as cold as frost.
“Mr. Sterling, you’ve certainly done your family proud.”
He tried to stand, but his legs were unresponsive. No matter how tightly he clenched his jaw, he could only struggle to kneel upright on his numb knees.
“Stella, are you just going to stand there and watch our Sterling family be destroyed?”
His voice was a desperate plea.
