Marrying My Father's Enemy-Chapter 152: Justice Closing In…

Chapter 152: Justice Closing In

The cold room was only filled with Beatrice’s laughter, as she leaned back on her luxurious couch, holding Eira’s diary in her lap.

"Why don’t you believe me?" Steven was mumbling to himself.

"Because this can’t be true!"

"You’re delusional, Beatrice..."

Beatrice smirked, flipping a page in the diary as if his words were nothing more than background noise.

"Oh, Steven," she said, her tone sounded more mocking than sympathetic. "You’re such a worrier. Let me remind you—I always win."

Steven clenched his jaw, his fingers tightening into fists.

He was about to retort when his phone vibrated in his pocket.

He pulled it out, glancing at the screen. His face paled.

"I told you, check this!!!"

"What is it now?" Beatrice asked, annoyed by the interruption.

Steven hesitated, his thumb hovering over the notification.

Finally, he tapped the screen, and a security feed appeared on the laptop.

The image was grainy, but it was unmistakable—SWAT officers were storming Eira’s apartment building.

’Finally...’

Beatrice’s smirk disappeared. "What’s this?"

"This is what happens when you push too far. Someone must have tipped them off."

Beatrice’s eyes narrowed as she leaned forward, staring at the footage.

The SWAT team moved swiftly and efficiently, breaching the building with tactical precision.

"No," Beatrice hissed, her grip tightening on the diary. "This is a bluff. They’re after someone else."

Steven’s voice was cold. "Really? Because that’s your bag they’re pulling out of the apartment."

The camera showed an officer carrying a sleek black bag marked with Beatrice’s initials.

It was stuffed with stolen documents and other incriminating evidence.

"You idiot," Steven muttered, pacing the room. "You left your mark on everything you took. They’ll trace it all back to you."

Beatrice’s expression twisted with rage. "Why didn’t you stop me, Steven? You were supposed to make sure—"

"I did try to stop you!" Steven snapped, his patience finally breaking. "But you don’t listen. You never listen!"

The Knock on the Door was louder than any thunder.

Before Beatrice could respond, another knock echoed through the penthouse.

The sound cut through the tension like a blade, and both of them froze.

"Beatrice Blackwood!" an ordering voice boomed from the other side of the door. "This is the police. Open up!"

Beatrice’s breath hitched, her confident act cracking for the first time. "They wouldn’t dare," she whispered, her voice shaky.

Steven glanced toward the door, then back at her. "You think you’re untouchable? Guess again."

The knock came again, louder this time. "Open the door, or we’ll break it down!"

Beatrice stood, her hands trembled slightly as she set the diary on the table.

"We can talk our way out of this," she muttered, more to herself than to Steven. "We’ve gotten out of worse situations."

Steven shook his head, his voice low and bitter. "Not this time.

The door burst open with a hard crash, splintering under the force of the police’s battering ram.

Beatrice stumbled back, her eyes wide as armed officers flooded the room, their weapons drawn.

"Hands where we can see them!" one of the officers shouted.

Beatrice hesitated... looking toward the diary on the table, but Steven grabbed her arm, pulling her back.

"Don’t be stupid," he hissed.

She glared at him but slowly raised her hands up.

Steven followed suit, having a blank but resigned face. "You were right about one thing," he muttered to Beatrice. "This is all going to come crashing down."

As the officers moved to restrain them, Beatrice’s composure snapped.

"This is a mistake!" she shouted, struggling against the cuffs. "Do you know who I am? I’m Beatrice Blackwood! You’ll regret this—every single one of you!"

One of the officers, unbothered, replied coldly. "We know exactly who you are, ma’am. That’s why we’re here."

Steven stood silently, his cuffs already secured.

He watched Beatrice’s outburst. "Just stop, Beatrice," he said quietly. "You’re only making it worse."

"Shut up, Steven!" Beatrice snapped, her voice venomous. "This is your fault. You were supposed to handle everything!"

The officer behind her tightened the cuffs. "Save it for the station," he said, steering her toward the door.

As they were led out of the penthouse, Beatrice caught sight of the officers cataloging the items in her living room.

The stolen documents. The diary. Her laptop.

"You can’t take that!" she screamed, trying to twist free. "That’s private property!"

"That’s evidence," the officer replied curtly, giving her a firm push toward the hallway.

Steven glanced back at the scene...He didn’t bother protesting. He knew it was over.

The ride to the station was very quiet...

Beatrice sat rigidly in the back seat, her lips pressed into one line.

She was already crafting stories and strategies to escape the charges.

Steven, sitting beside her, stared out the window.

After a long pause, he finally spoke. "You know they’re going to throw everything at us, right? The documents, the break-in, the diary... It’s all going to come out."

Beatrice didn’t respond, her jaw tightening.

"And when it does," Steven continued, his voice low, "you’ll have no one left to blame but yourself."

The police station was active as Beatrice and Steven were led inside, their cuffs removed only after they were secured in separate holding rooms.

Beatrice paced the small room... Her frustration boiled over, and she slammed her fists against the table.

"This is ridiculous!" she shouted to no one in particular. "I’m not some common criminal!"

The officer stationed outside didn’t even glance in her direction.

Meanwhile, in the adjacent room, Steven sat quietly, his hands folded on the table.

He stared at the wall only.

Hours later, Beatrice was pulled into an interrogation room.

She sat across from a stone-faced detective, her hands clenched tightly in her lap.

"Let’s start with the break-in," the detective said, sliding a folder across the table. Inside were photos of the stolen documents, the diary, and the bag with her initials.

"I have no idea what you’re talking about," Beatrice said smoothly, her voice regaining its usual confidence.

The detective raised an eyebrow. "You don’t? Because we have footage of you and Steven entering Eira Hax apartment a couple of hours ago."

Beatrice’s smirk faded, but she quickly recovered. "That’s circumstantial. You can’t prove anything."

The detective leaned forward, "We also have a witness. And let me tell you, they’re very eager to testify."

Beatrice’s composure cracked. "This is a setup," she hissed. "I demand to speak to my lawyer."

"You’ll get your lawyer," the detective said calmly.

"But until then, you might want to think about cooperating. Because right now, it’s not looking good for you."

In his own interrogation room, Steven said little.

He answered the detective’s questions with curt, vague replies, refusing to implicate himself or Beatrice.

But as the hours dragged on, even he began to feel the situation.

"I will tell you everything you need to know if you promise to let me see my daughter."

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