Sensing Charles' accelerated heartbeat—far quicker than normal—William immediately knew this guy wasn't being truthful. In fact, Charles was scared out of his mind, probably because he realized he'd just tried to deceive William.
Smiling slyly, William continued, "By the way, I heard that Marco Cavendish's current wife used to be your ex-girlfriend?"
Ignoring the pain etched across Charles' face, William pressed on nonchalantly, "Tell me, shouldn't I be interpreting this as: your uncle, the Duke of Devonshire, isn't helping you because he knows you and your ex-girlfriend are plotting against his old friend and brother-in-law, Marco Cavendish?"
"Bloody hell!" Charles jumped to his feet, his face ashen with fear. Pointing a trembling finger at William, he stammered, "Y-you, you, you..." but couldn't form a coherent sentence.
His mind flashed back to the Duke of Devonshire's warning a few days ago. His uncle had told him, Even if you can't resist the temptation of the inheritance, don't go asking William for help. Once he gets interested, there's nothing he can't figure out—and nothing he can't uncover.
Now it seemed his uncle was right. William had pieced it all together with frightening accuracy. If William was this perceptive, Charles thought, maybe it would be smarter to work with him rather than with his conniving ex-girlfriend, who was clearly motivated by greed.
If he could align himself with someone as powerful and resourceful as William, he might stand a better chance—not only at survival but also at securing more than the $1.8 billion he would have netted after taxes.
Calming himself down, Charles decided to drop the act. He adjusted his slightly wrinkled suit, poured himself and William another half glass of whiskey, and confessed, "You know, Susie was actually planning to get engaged to me. But Marco swooped in and stole her away."
As Charles spoke, he kept a careful eye on William's expression, hoping for a hint of sympathy. But all he saw was a faint smirk—mocking and derisive.
Charles gritted his teeth in frustration but pressed on, "Since you won't break your rules, and you don't want to involve your men and risk your name being associated with me, how about this: give me some advice? Surely, there's no rule against that?"
"Advice?" William chuckled, swirling his drink lazily. "I don't hand out advice for free, Charles. You know that."
Charles hesitated for a moment before biting the bullet. "Fine. But don't forget, from the moment I walked into your house, you're already involved. If anything happens to me now, people will suspect you."
William smirked at the veiled threat. "Nope," he said nonchalantly. "All I have to do is send you back to England and lock you up until this whole mess is over. No one will suspect me then."
"But what would you gain from doing that?" Charles countered. "Don't tell me you're not interested in Château Margaux or Marco's Formula 1 team."
"F1 teams can be bought with money anytime," William said dismissively. "As for the winery, I'm in no rush. I don't need to tarnish my reputation over saving a couple hundred million dollars."
"Bloody hell!" Charles growled, frustrated by William's cold logic. Desperate, he raised the stakes. "Fine! The winery is yours—for free! Just help me gather evidence against the people targeting us."
Now this was a tempting offer. Gathering evidence wasn't the same as direct involvement. If he could find proof, Sunday could anonymously leak it to the authorities without leaving a trace back to him.
William leaned back, his expression thoughtful. "Alright," he said finally. "I'll take that deal."
Charles exhaled deeply in relief. With William's assurance, he felt a measure of safety return. If William had agreed to help, even indirectly, it meant he wouldn't sit back and let Charles die.
But as the tension eased, Charles' mind started working again. An idea formed, bold and reckless.
"What if," Charles began cautiously, "we staged my death? If everyone thought I was dead, the real culprits would drop their guard. And once they've revealed themselves, we can hand over the evidence to the authorities—and I can 'miraculously' come back to life."
William raised an eyebrow. "Not a bad idea. A bit melodramatic, though." He leaned forward with a mischievous grin and tapped his own chest.
"Here's a suggestion: we use a small-caliber bullet with high penetration. I'll shoot you right here," he said, pointing to the space between his third and fourth ribs. "The bullet will avoid your heart and major arteries but puncture a lung.
"You'll bleed out like crazy, and to anyone watching, it'll look like you're a goner. But if we control the bleeding and manage the chest cavity pressure quickly, you'll have a 90% chance of surviving.
"Want to give it a shot?"
William was clearly joking—or so he thought. But to his surprise, Charles seemed to seriously consider it. After a few minutes of silence, Charles asked, "If the bullet punctures my lung, will there be long-term consequences?"
"Are you serious?" William gawked at him in disbelief.
Charles' gaze turned resolute. "Tell me—what are the risks?"
"Three months in bed, no strenuous activity for a year, and for the next three years, you can't afford to get hurt in the same spot," William said, shaking his head.
Then, tapping his earpiece, he murmured, "Sunday?"
Sunday responded immediately. "Sir, if a specialized bullet is used to minimize damage and the surgery is successful, the long-term effects should be negligible."
Hearing this, Charles' eyes lit up. But William wasn't amused.
"Buddy, you're out of your mind," William said. "There are other ways to fake your death. Certain drugs can simulate death without requiring you to take a bullet. Why risk your life like this?"
But Charles' determination only seemed to grow. Sitting quietly on the couch, he downed the rest of his whiskey before speaking.
"The problem with drugs is that it's too easy to figure out afterward. Once the truth comes out, everyone will know I staged the whole thing.
"But if I take a bullet—if I actually walk through death's door and come back—that'll silence all doubt. No one would dare question it."
William sighed, rubbing his temples. "I think the money's driven you insane."
This was far beyond what he'd expected from Charles, who had always seemed like a timid and selfish man. But now, seeing him so ruthless—even willing to gamble his life—William couldn't help but reevaluate him.
To be fair, with Marco Cavendish's estate worth around $2 billion after taxes, the stakes were enormous.
"Alright, I'll admit it—you've got guts," William said. "But sorry, I'm not helping you with this. I might not like you, but we're still family. If something goes wrong, I'll have to live with it for the rest of my life."
William's refusal only seemed to solidify Charles' trust in him. After all, if William truly cared enough to avoid endangering him, wasn't he the perfect ally?
"Bloody hell!" Charles exclaimed, frustrated. "Who else can I trust with something this secretive? Your people are the only ones who can pull this off without exposing me."
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Reborn in America's Anti-Terror Unit (Chapter 542)
Solomon in Marvel (Chapter 924)
Becoming the Wealthiest Tycoon on the Planet (Chapter 1284)
Surgical Fruit in the American Comics Universe (Chapter 1289)
American Detective: From TV Rookie to Seasoned Cop (Chapter 1316)
American TV Writer (Chapter 1402)
I Am Hades, The Supreme GOD of the Underworld! (Chapter 570)
Reborn as Humanity's Emperor Across the Multiverse (Chapter 660)
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