Studying at Western University starts with a knife-forging competition

Chapter 108

"A comparison of the original, unedited version and the edited version clearly shows your intention to fabricate evidence." Harris's voice was flat and monotone, like he was giving an academic presentation. "Federal law stipulates a maximum sentence of five years for fabricating evidence. If you add 'extortion'—you demanded $22,000 from Matt Wayne and then demanded an annual split of $500,000—these two charges combined carry a maximum federal sentence of ten years."

The meeting room fell silent.

A crack appeared in the clouds outside the window, letting in a pale ray of sunlight that shone on the desk and landed right on the folder.

Catherine sat there, her hands on her knees, her fingers trembling slightly. Her face was expressionless, but her eyes were a little red, though she didn't cry.

Harris didn't rush her. He picked up the water glass on the table, took a sip, and put the glass back, his movements as unhurried as before.

After about two minutes, he spoke.

"Mr. Wayne asked me to pass on a few words to you."

Catherine looked up at him.

"First, he admires your ambition." Harris's voice was lower than before, with a subtle undertone, as if he were quoting a late philosopher. "But you chose the wrong opponent."

Catherine's lips tightened.

"Secondly, if you put this effort into the right thing, you'll be a successful businessman within five years," Harris paused, "but now, you only have ten minutes to make a decision."

He pushed the blank envelope in front of Catherine.

"Sign or don't sign. The countdown begins now."

The meeting room was so quiet that you could hear the hum of the air conditioner vents.

Catherine looked down at the envelope for about twenty seconds. Then she reached out, picked it up, tore it open, and pulled out the agreement.

She began to read.

It was three pages long. Single-spaced, dense with legal terminology, making it a slow read. She read it line by line, her finger tracing the clauses, occasionally pausing to reread a particular paragraph.

Her finger paused halfway through the second page.

The clause reads: "The signatories agree that all contents of this agreement shall not be disclosed to any third party. The Wayne Family reserves the right to pursue all legal liabilities for any breach."

She stared at that line for a few seconds, then continued reading.

The third page ends with a signature panel, a date panel, and a blank space.

Catherine placed the agreement on the table, picked up the pen that was prepared on the table, and held it in her hand.

She did not sign immediately.

She looked up at Harris.

"The transfer wasn't mentioned in the agreement."

Harris's expression remained unchanged. "The transfer wasn't part of the agreement. It was Mr. Wayne's verbal promise to his daughter Emily's friend, Leah. It has nothing to do with you."

Catherine ran her fingers over the pen cap.

"What will I get if I sign?"

"The cost of a year's worth of psychological counseling," Harris said. "It's clearly stated in the first clause of the agreement."

"That's all?"

That's all.

Catherine was silent for a few seconds, then smiled. The smile wasn't as composed as before; instead, it carried a bitter, self-deprecating tone.

"You really don't intend to leave me anything?"

Harris didn't answer the question. He glanced at his watch.

"Four minutes left."

Catherine lowered her head, looking at the agreement. Her right hand held the pen, the nib hovering above the signature line, trembling slightly.

The clouds outside the window closed again, the pale sunlight disappeared, and the conference room darkened.

The pen tip touches down.

Catherine M. Hall.

The handwriting wasn't neat, but it was legible. After signing it, she wrote down the date, then put the pen on the table and pushed the agreement in front of Harris.

Her fingers trembled slightly as she loosened the agreement, but her expression returned to calm—not the deliberate calm she had shown before, but a deeper, more profound stillness, like the calm that comes from being submerged underwater.

Harris picked up the agreement, checked the signatures and dates from beginning to end to make sure they were correct, then put it in the folder and closed it.

He stood up and zipped up his briefcase.

"Mr. Wayne asked me to pass on one last message to you."

Catherine looked up.

"He said—" Harris stood by the table, briefcase in hand, "He wished you all the best for the future."

Catherine did not answer.

Harris turned and walked toward the door. His hand rested on the doorknob; he paused, but didn't look back.

"By the way. If you really want to do something worthwhile in the future—the Wayne family business will always be lacking someone who understands marketing."

He pushed open the door and went out.

The conference room door closed slowly behind me, making a soft, muffled sound.

Catherine sat alone at the table, the original signed agreement lying before her, which Harris had taken away. Her fingers rested on the paper, her thumb tracing the blank space next to the signature line, again and again.

A muffled clap of thunder came from outside the window.

The rain finally came.

On Friday night, the lights in the hotel suite's living room were dimly lit.

Richard changed into a dark gray loungewear sweater, went barefoot in slippers, and sat on the sofa. Three glasses of whiskey sat on the coffee table in front of him: one in his hand, one in front of Matt, and one in front of Emily. Emily's glass was barely touched; she simply traced circles on the rim with her finger.

It's raining outside. The rain isn't loud, but it's very dense, making a soft pattering sound as it hits the windowpane.

"She signed." Richard swirled the whiskey in his glass, the ice clinking against the rim. "Harris called me from her office this afternoon. The agreement is effective immediately."

Matt sat on the armchair opposite Richard, holding a glass in both hands, staring at the amber liquid inside. He remained silent for a long time before speaking, his voice slightly hoarse.

"I do not understand."

Richard glanced at him. "Don't understand what?"

“We have enough evidence.” Matt looked up at his father. “Recordings, videos, timelines, witnesses—enough to send her to federal prison. Why not? Why give her a way out? And pay for her therapy?”

The living room was quiet for a few seconds. Only the sound of rain and the low hum of the air conditioner could be heard.

Richard didn't answer immediately. He placed the whiskey on the coffee table, leaned forward, and crossed his hands on his knees.

"What kind of person do you think she is?" he asked.

Matt was taken aback by the question. He thought for a moment and said, "A blackmailer. A conman."

"Anything else?"

"————" Matt opened his mouth, but didn't say anything more.

Emily whispered from the side, "She's very smart."

"9

Richard turned and glanced at his daughter, then nodded.

"Smart. Very smart." He turned his gaze back to Matt. "Do you know why she almost succeeded? It wasn't because she had that so-called evidence"—that stuff was no match for the lawyers we brought in.

She almost succeeded because her methods were clever enough, her ambition was great enough, and she chose a good target.

""

He picked up the whiskey, took another sip, and put it down.

"A Chinese student who just won the knife-forging competition, and a kind but weak rich kid—one of you is in the open, the other in the shadows. She has also spotted your weaknesses: you want to protect Lin Yuan, and Lin Yuan needs your family's resources to open up the market."

She found the perfect fulcrum between the two of you. If it weren't for your good fortune this time—that Emily happened to know Leah, and that Leah happened to be willing to step in—you two would already be completely manipulated by her.

Matt's fingers tightened slightly on the side of the cup.

"So what?" His voice was somewhat harsh. "Just because she's clever, we're going to let her go?"

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