Master of Lust-Chapter 259 - -

Chapter - 259

A man stood in a deserted alley, the bright orange glow of afternoon sun casting jagged shadows across his face. He pulled his hoodie tighter, adjusting the cap. Reaching into his pocket, he retrieved a battered phone, the screen cracked but functional. His hand trembled slightly as he pressed a number from his call log.

The phone rang three times before a voice answered. Gruff, impatient, and laced with disdain.

"What is it?" Rick's father barked. "Did you figure out what to do, or are you wasting my time again?"

The man exhaled slowly, gripping the phone tightly as though steadying himself. His voice, low and cautious. "Pretty much, yeah. I've got an idea."

There was silence on the other end, but the tension was palpable. Rick's father didn't need to speak; the weight of his expectations pressed through the phone like a physical force.

"It's the car," the man continued, his voice gaining a little confidence. "But I need access to the car— I can set a nice trap—I can end him and it will look like a real accident this time. Clean and simple. No one will suspect a thing."

There was a pause on the other end, the silence almost suffocating. When the voice came back, it was calm, cold, and calculated. "I can arrange that. Getting to his car won't be an issue."

The man exhaled softly, a note of relief slipping into his voice. "If you can do that, it'll make things easier. I just need some time with the car."

"Good," the voice replied sharply. "You'll have what you need, but make sure you deliver."

There was a long pause on the other end, filled only with the crackle of static. When Rick's father spoke again, his voice was quieter but menacing. "Don't you screw this up! No loose ends, you hear me?"

The man swallowed hard, nodding despite the other party not being able to see him. "I get it. No loose ends."

The call ended abruptly, leaving the man staring at the blank screen. He slipped the phone back into his pocket, his fingers lingering over the fabric as his mind raced. His breath fogged in the chilly night air as he muttered to himself, "No mistakes."

He glanced around the alley, and disappeared back into the darkness, his mind already spinning with the logistics of his plan.

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Rick's car rolled to a stop in front of his father's house, and he honked the horn, signalling his arrival. Jemimah, who had been near the window, caught sight of him and rushed outside. She threw her arms around him in a tight embrace, her face lighting up with genuine joy.

From inside the house, Rick's father watched the scene unfold, his eyes narrowing as Jemimah wrapped her arms around Rick. His face burned with fury, and his fists clenched at his sides. The failed poisoning attempt had already left him seething, and then the hit job had fallen through as well. Now, to see Rick back here, alive and well, basking in the affection of the girl he desired —it was too much. Why couldn't he just die?

But Rick's father controlled himself, forcing his rage down as he stepped out of the house, his face carefully composed. He plastered on a fake smile, though his forehead glistened with sweat and his eyes darted nervously.

"Good to see you again, son," he greeted, the false warmth in his voice trying to hide the anger burning beneath the surface.

Jemimah quickly pulled away from Rick as his father approached, stepping back. Rick met his father's eyes and felt the seething rage beneath the mask.

"What brings you back so soon?" Rick's father asked, his voice steady but tight. "And how are Olivia and Emily?"

Rick's expression didn't change, but a flicker of anger burned inside him. How dare he ask about them, Rick thought. He knew his father had orchestrated the truck attack, even though Olivia and Emily had been with him at the time. Yet here he was, pretending to care. Rick swallowed his emotions and replied evenly, "They're well. I'm back here to stay for a while... some problems at my place."

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Jemimah, with her warm smile, added, "It's good that you'll be staying with us." Her happiness was sincere, but it only seemed to fuel Rick's father's growing resentment.

Rick's father, irritated, put his best efforts to hide it, asking, "For how long?"

Rick leaned against his car, his eyes narrowing slightly as he grinned, a smile full of mockery. "My apartment's almost completely destroyed. It'll take a long time to repair," he said. "So, indefinitely. Is that a problem?"

His father's smile faltered for a moment before he forced it back into place. "No... no problem at all".

Rick's father shifted his weight uncomfortably, the tension of the situation lingering in the air. Forcing a smile, he clapped Rick on the shoulder. "Make yourself at home, son," he said warmly, masking the venom simmering underneath. "Excuse me for a moment—I'll be right back."

Without waiting for a response, he retreated into the house, stepping into the small, dimly lit washroom at the back of the hallway. Pulling out his phone, he quickly tapped out a message.

How fast can you get here? Sending the location now.

Rick's father put his phone away, splashed some water on his face to maintain appearances, and returned to the living room where Rick and Jemimah were chatting casually.

Rick's father approached the pair, his gaze lingering on Jemimah just a moment too long before turning to Rick with a seemingly innocent suggestion. "Rick, why don't you help me move some old boxes from the store room? We can clear it and make it your bedroom for now."

Rick sighed, glancing at Jemimah. "Well then!" he said, following his father.

The room was dusty, filled with a mix of old tools, broken furniture, and cobweb-covered boxes. His father gestured toward a particularly precarious stack in the corner. "Those—if we can move them out, the space will be a lot more usable."

Rick stepped forward, inspecting the boxes. "These looks like they haven't been touched in years. What even is in them?"

His father waved a hand dismissively. "Old junk, mostly. But it needs to go."

As Rick leaned over to lift the first box, his father "accidentally" bumped into a shelf lined with rusty cans of paint. One of them tipped over, the lid rattling off, and thick, sticky paint splattered across Rick's shirt, arms, and even his face.

"Damn it!" Rick cursed, stumbling back.

"Oh! Oh, my God!" his father exclaimed, his tone a mix of exaggerated surprise and feigned guilt. "I'm so sorry, Rick! I didn't see it coming—I just lost my balance!"

Rick glared at him, wiping at the paint futilely with his already ruined shirt. "Seriously? Could you be more careful?"

His father raised his hands in mock surrender. "It was an honest mistake! Here, let me grab a rag—"

Rick shook his head, clearly annoyed. "Forget it. I'll just take a shower."

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"Well, the bathroom's free," his father said, his fake concern barely masking the gleam of satisfaction in his eyes.

Rick stormed off toward the washroom, muttering under his breath.

His father watched him leave, his expression shifting to one of cold calculation. He pulled out his phone again, quickly typing out another message:

He's out of the way for now. You've got a window—don't waste it.

Rick's father wasted no time clearing out the cluttered storeroom, hauling out old boxes, broken furniture, and dusty knick-knacks. His movements were quick, deliberate, and tinged with an urgency he barely managed to conceal. Every now and then, he paused to glance toward the house, ensuring Rick was still in the shower.

Once the room was emptied and somewhat presentable, he dusted off his hands and slipped into Rick's room. Spotting the familiar Range Rover key fob on the bedside table, he grabbed it with a practiced ease and left the house quietly.

Outside, he stood near the driveway, his eyes scanning the street. The late afternoon sun bathed everything in a golden hue, but his expression remained dark and focused. He tapped his foot impatiently, his nerves betraying the calm demeanour he tried to project.

Minutes later, a truck rolled up and stopped a short distance from the house. The man from earlier stepped out, his hood and cap gone, replaced with a casual jacket. He carried a small black toolbox in one hand and approached Rick's father with a brisk pace.

The two exchanged brief words, their conversation inaudible, leaving only the tension between them visible. The man gestured toward the car, explaining something with animated hand movements. Rick's father's face darkened, his lips tightening as he crossed his arms. Whatever the man was saying clearly wasn't sitting well with him.

At one point, Rick's father raised his voice, though the exact words were lost to the distance. His tense posture and sharp gestures indicated frustration, but the man remained calm, his responses measured and deliberate. Slowly, Rick's father seemed to relent, though the unease lingered in his stiff movements and furrowed brow.

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