DRAWN TO HER: AN UNEXPECTED LOVE

Chapter 5: A Father’s Blood

“It was earlier confirmed by the investigators I hired to look into your father’s accident,” his uncle began solemnly, “that your father's accident wasn’t a mistake—or really an accident at all.”

“It was an arranged, deliberate act to eliminate your father. And the killers succeeded in making it look like a simple crash.”

“My investigators discovered several strange devices installed in the engine. Experts who examined them said they were specifically designed to release intense pressure, often causing sparks and destabilizing a moving vehicle.”

“And based on where those devices were installed—at highly sensitive points—it was clearly intentional. The goal was a deadly blowout.”

“There’s more,” he added. “The investigators concluded that your father's death was carefully planned and carried out by skilled and experienced professionals. These were not amateurs. They were experts.”

Desmond’s uncle fell silent.

As someone who had been closely following the investigation into the death of his brother—Desmond’s father—he wanted Desmond to focus on running the company, while he handled the inquiry.

Because of his involvement, Desmond’s uncle had access to most of the key information and sources relating to the incident.

Desmond, upon hearing the truth, was overcome with fury. His expression darkened, his previously calm, well-lit face now clouded with rage. His eyes burned red with indignation.

The revelation that his father’s death had been planned only deepened his anger. A heavy wave of wrath surged inside him.

Slamming his fists onto the desk, Desmond gripped its edges tightly, as though he might shatter it with his bare hands. Thoughts of his father's murder—and the identity of the killers—raced through his mind.

His fury swelled. His father had been his only companion while growing up. With his mother gone since early childhood and no siblings, his father had been his best friend—the man who raised him and gave him everything.

Now, someone had taken that from him.

"I won’t stop until the murderer—the architect of my father’s death—is found and punished,” he said through clenched teeth, his voice filled with rage. “No. No way. They will be brought to justice.”

He raised his face from the desk, staring at his uncle, who understood all too well the pain Desmond was feeling.

“I’m not going to let this go. They’re going to pay.”

“That won’t be an issue,” his uncle replied calmly. “I’ve already ordered all hands on deck. The current investigators are now working with a second team. With more support, we can speed things up and get results.”

Desmond nodded in agreement. “They should do whatever it takes—everything within their power—to find the culprits. No matter the cost.”

“I just need to know who did this to my father,” he added, a vicious intensity in his eyes.

After their conversation, his uncle left the office, got into one of his luxurious cars, and drove off.

Desmond returned to his tasks, but his mind was far from settled. The news had shattered his peace.

---

By evening, the office had emptied. Most employees had gone home.

Tiffany, still in her office, was packing up. She was the last person left on the top floor—the same floor as the CEO’s office.

Just as she zipped up her bag, a loud crash echoed through the floor. It came from Desmond’s office. Alarmed, she rushed out.

Pushing open the door, she gasped in horror. Her eyes widened at the sight.

Desmond was sitting behind his desk, bleeding heavily from his left arm. Everything that had been on his desk was now scattered on the floor—shattered glass, spilled papers, broken gadgets. It looked like the entire desk had been cleared in a violent outburst.

Stepping cautiously into the room, Tiffany’s concern grew. Broken bottles and glass shards littered the floor. Blood stained several pieces.

It was clear Desmond had injured himself during a fit of rage. But what had caused such an extreme reaction?

“Mr. Desmond!” she cried, rushing over. “You’re bleeding!”

Desmond didn’t flinch. He sat silently, casually pressing a piece of cloth to the wound, as if it were nothing.

“Please, let me help you,” she insisted, ignoring the cold glare he gave her.

Without responding, he allowed her to approach.

She hurried to her office and returned with a first aid kit. The wound was deep, but she worked quickly—cleaning, dressing, and bandaging it with care.

“You should still see a doctor,” she said gently.

Desmond didn’t reply. Once the bleeding stopped, he grabbed his coat and briefcase.

“Thank you,” he muttered stiffly, then walked out.

Tiffany didn’t mind the lack of gratitude. She stayed behind to clean the office, though her mind was filled with questions about what had caused such an explosion of anger.

---

Back at the mansion, the cool air from the central system circulated gently. The building radiated an aura of wealth and quiet majesty. Every piece of furniture screamed opulence—priceless decor, designer fixtures, polished floors.

Outside, the sky was darkening. Night was approaching. Staff moved quietly, wrapping up duties for the day.

Those who saw Desmond return with a bandaged arm exchanged curious glances but said nothing. He had never been warm or approachable. His arrogance was something they had all learned to accept.

Inside his massive upstairs room, Desmond sat on the edge of his couch. The air from the open window brushed softly against his face. The neatly made bed behind him remained untouched.

He held a glass of liquor in his hand, sipping it slowly between waves of thought. Each sip felt like a breath of life through the storm inside him. But even the alcohol couldn’t drown his grief.

He looked down at his bandaged arm, remembering what had happened earlier. In a surge of anger, he had shoved everything from his desk—the bottle, the glass, even his devices. That’s how he’d been hurt.

He knew his rage was getting dangerous—but he couldn’t suppress it. Not now.

He had everything: wealth, influence, success. But none of it mattered.

The one person who truly meant something to him was gone—murdered.

Staring at a framed photo of him and his father from years ago, tears rolled silently down his cheeks. That familiar cloud of isolation crept back in—the same he had felt in the first few months after the funeral.

To the outside world, he was a powerful heir. But inside, he was just a broken boy with no one left.

His arrogance was a mask, a shield to protect the loneliness he carried.

Now, sitting in silence, clutching the photo tightly, he let the tears flow.

“I’m not going to stop until I get vengeance for you, Dad,” he whispered through clenched teeth.

His new mission was clear: to find the person responsible—and make them pay.