"Then be ready to see your wife's corpse." Anthony's merciless voice triggered the plan forming in Robert's mind.
Yet he said in a trembling and despair-filled voice, "Please... please don't do it!"
Instead of replying, Anthony hung up the call, and Robert stared at the phone with an intense gaze before handing it to Nia and entering the room.
The office's wooden floor gleamed under the bright ceiling light. The room was cold, unnaturally so, the kind of chill that seeps into bones and numbs thought.
Nixon was seated in his comfortable chair, his fingers intertwined with each other, while his elbow was resting on the glass table. Few files were organized on his left side, while the cold humming of the air conditioner filled the air.
The moment the door closed, Robert got down on his knees and begged in a trembling voice, "Sir, please help me!"
