Chapter 138: Detention Center
The words slipped out quietly—that cut deeper than any shout could have. Keaton’s eyes, which looked like his mother’s eyes, hardened into chips of ice.
"In respect for my mother’s legacy."
Keaton said that each word was frighteningly cold.
"You can’t possibly expect me to save your favorite son from jail."
George’s hand froze mid-reach, suspended on the holographic display like a glitch.
Keaton didn’t look away. His eyes had hardened into something sharp and merciless.
"I’ll see that he rots there."
He added, his tone unwavering.
"And when he does, I hope you remember this moment. The moment you realized I won’t clean up after you anymore."
George’s expression tightened, but Keaton wasn’t finished.
"Just as you let my mother rot in that prison-like mansion,"
He said softly in a low voice.
"Just as you sullied her memories with your deceit—your betrayal."
He leaned closer, letting the dim interior light cast shadows under his eyes, making him see every ounce of hatred burning in his expression.
"Every affair. Every bastard child. Every lie you made her swallow while she was dying."
His lips curled into something that wasn’t quite a smile.
"I hope it was worth it."
There was a beat of silence—heavy, suffocating—before George finally reacted.
"You—!" George surged forward, his face changed from red to purple. "Keaton, you ungrateful—"
Keaton ended the call.
The holographic projection shattered into nothing, leaving behind only a faint, dying hum. The silence felt different now—heavier with things that couldn’t be unsaid.
The driver, seated in the driver’s seat, hadn’t moved a muscle.
His hands were fixed on the control panel. His eyes were looking straight ahead. His shoulders were locked tight.
However, the privacy partition was still down.
It meant that he had heard everything—every accusation, every insinuation, every ugly piece of truth about the Hewitt family.
Keaton knew he should care.
He couldn’t bring himself to.
Not right now.
His mind wandered, staring at the moonlit skyline of Xylos.
He recalled their mansion’s garden. His mother’s favorite flower was a cluster of white, mutated dianthus flowers. It was blooming under the soft garden lights. The air had smelled faintly of the artificial rain.
He once stood there longer than necessary, just... looking.
They said she had died suddenly and that it was a complication. That these things just happened all of a sudden, without explanation.
Except now—now he questioned everything.
Keaton found himself wondering. His father, George, had kept mistresses—countless, multiple mistresses—he could imagine only increasing in the future, with an entire network of them, scattered across their social circles and beyond.
Women who had produced children suspiciously close together in age.
Women who were financially dependent on his favor—and his money.
Women who benefited from the legitimate wife being fragile, sick, and now—gone.
Keaton’s stomach churned uncomfortably.
What would one of them have done if they feared losing their position?
If the bastard children lose their claims to the Hewitt fortune?
What if the legitimate wife might reclaim George’s attention?
What would any of them have done if his mother—gentle, kind, loved—had begun to recover?
His hands began to shake.
He curled them into fists until his fingernails punctured his skin. It bit into his palms hard enough to leave crescents in the skin. The sharp sting barely grounded him and retrieved his thickening and murderous pheromones.
"Hey," Keaton said, but his voice came out rough.
"Yes, sir?" The driver’s tone was soft and careful.
"Take me to the detention center," Keaton ordered. "The one where they’re holding Mick."
The driver hesitated for a moment, but Keaton still noticed it.
"Sir... if I may, it’s very late. Perhaps in the morning—"
"Now."
His tone wasn’t sharp. It didn’t need to be. But it was enough to make the driver understand.
"Yes, sir," he said, and rerouted the hover car without another word.
The engine hummed as the vehicle changed direction, sliding into a discreet aerial lane. Neon lights streaked across the windows, casting soft colors over Keaton’s face—blue, pink, orange—flashes blending into something almost surreal.
Keaton stared at nothing, his expression unreadable.
Not anger.
Not sadness.
Just a cold, hollow resolve.
He lifted his wrist and flicked open his light brain. His fingers hesitated for only a second before he typed a short message.
Just a simple threat.
[Attend the collaboration meeting in Maxwell Corporation with me.
If you don’t, I’ll send the legal proof of their births to all of your children.
To every single one of them.
One by one.
Guessing how many there are... the company will go bankrupt before you can even divide enough shares to keep them all quiet.]
Keaton reread the message once.
Then hit send.
His expression didn’t change. Only his shoulders dropped, releasing a breath he hadn’t known he was holding.
Outside, the city lights continued to blur. His mind was already turning over the conversation he needed to have.
Keaton needed to speak with Killian Sergie.
If Keaton was going to fulfill his end of the bargain he made with Maxwell, he needed someone who had access to places he didn’t.
Someone who knew where George Hewitt kept his secrets.
...
The detention center was exactly as depressing as Keaton had expected. The smell of industrial cleaner failed to mask the underlying odors of sweat and despair.
A Beta officer at the front desk looked up from his quantum computer with barely concealed annoyance at having to process a visitor at this ungodly hour.
If there was anything that he learned from his arrogant father and brother, it was that anyone who was in a bad mood was in a good one at a certain price.
Ten minutes and several transferred star coins later, he found himself in one of the private visitor rooms reserved for lawyers and family members.
The room was barely large enough for a table and two chairs. It has a one-way observation window taking up most of one wall. Everything was bolted to the floor. Red light masked the cameras in the room.
He had specifically requested not to see Mick. The officer, who seemed to have recognized him, had raised an eyebrow at that but hadn’t really asked it out loud.
