Keifer's PoV
Sleep never came.
London nights have a way of reminding you what loneliness sounds like — the soft hum of traffic outside, the creak of an old house filled with people who'd rather see you gone. I lay there, staring at the faint outline of the chandelier on the ceiling, the shadows shifting with every passing car.
Somewhere in the east wing, a grandfather clock struck three.
I sat up, heart heavy but mind clear. If Kaizer thought I came here to surrender, he'd underestimated me. This trip wasn't about signing anything — it was about her.
My mother.
Clara Watson.
The woman Kaizer had called weak. The woman he'd called an inconvenience. The woman whose death was ruled an accident — even though I'd seen the bruises that didn't match the story.
I threw on a hoodie, careful not to make noise as I left the room. The corridors were dimly lit, old portraits staring down from the walls — all the great Watson men, frozen in their self-importance. My mother's portrait wasn't there anymore.
Kaizer had it taken down the day after her funeral.
But I remembered where it used to hang: the end of the north hallway, opposite his study.
And if my memory was right, that study still held her old files. Her charity work. Her research notes. Her will.
The door to Kaizer's study was locked — of course it was — but Watson blood comes with certain privileges. I'd learned to pick the lock when I was sixteen, back when I still thought secrets were just puzzles waiting to be solved.
Two minutes later, the lock clicked.
The study smelled like expensive cigars and old money. The desk was immaculate — everything placed with military precision. But what drew my eye wasn't the desk.
It was the portrait above the fireplace.
Clara Watson.
Not the gentle version I remembered from childhood photos — this one was regal, almost defiant. Her eyes, painted with haunting accuracy, seemed to follow me as I crossed the room.
"Hi, Mom," I whispered. "Guess I'm back."
The silence pressed in.
I knelt by the filing cabinet, pulling open drawers. Nothing — business contracts, legal forms, tax records. All Kaizer's garbage. Until I reached the last drawer.
A folder labeled 'Clara W. — Confidential.'
My chest tightened. I opened it slowly, scanning through papers — most were foundation documents, donation records, letters. Then something caught my eye — a coroner's report. Dated the week she died.
Cause of death: blunt force trauma from automobile accident. Location: private road outside Watson estate.
But beneath it, tucked between pages, was a photo.
A crime scene photo.
The car's hood crumpled, windshield shattered — but the bruises on her neck told another story. They weren't from a seatbelt. They were from hands.
"Couldn't sleep, Keifer?"
I froze. The voice came from the doorway.
Kaizer stood there, robe tied neatly, expression unreadable. His silhouette filled the frame like a shadow carved from something ancient and cruel.
I turned slowly, folder still in my hand. "You keep files on dead women now?"
"Just on ones who cause problems," he said evenly. "Put it back."
"You killed her," I said quietly. My voice didn't shake, but my hands did. "You killed Mom."
Kaizer's eyes narrowed — not in guilt, but in irritation, like I was a child interrupting his schedule.
"You really should rest," he said. "Tomorrow we'll discuss your inheritance. The sooner you sign, the sooner you can go back to your little family in the tropics."
He turned to leave, pausing at the door.
"And Keifer — stop looking for ghosts. You won't like what you find."
The door closed behind him. And just like that, the house felt smaller.
The next morning, London pretended to be kind — sunlight slipping through thin clouds, the hum of life outside the estate's walls. I sat at the window with a cup of tea I didn't drink, staring out at the city and thinking about what I'd seen.
The file was gone. He'd taken it during the night. But I didn't need paper to remember what those bruises looked like.
Jay texted just before noon.
Jay: You didn't call. Are you okay? Jay: I had a bad dream. You were… somewhere dark. Please tell me you're fine.
I stared at the screen for a long time before replying.
Keif: I'm okay. Just meetings. Long nights. Promise I'm fine.
A lie wrapped in a promise. The worst kind.
Because the truth was — Kaizer Watson wasn't just hiding something. He was covering up a murder. And now that I'd seen too much, I knew he'd do whatever it took to keep me quiet.
That night, I made a plan.
Before I left London, I'd find out everything — every document, every record, every whisper that could prove what he'd done to her.
For my mother. For myself. For Jay and the baby who deserved a future free from this family's poison.
If Kaizer wanted a war, I'd give him one.
And I wouldn't stop until my mother's soul could finally rest.
End of chapter 38