Flower of Carnage (18+) || BeckFreen [Completed]

Chapter 35

The tension in the room was palpable as I locked eyes with the unexpected figure. It was none other than my father. Perhaps he was the one Friend was talking about, the enigmatic and powerful figure who had always seemed to lurk in the shadows of my tumultuous life. He looked like a man of influence, capable of both unspeakable cruelty and unexpected compassion.

"Dad," I said, my voice holding a mixture of surprise and uncertainty. "What are you doing here? I thought you're dead?"

I fought back tears. It wasn't the time for a father and daughter reunion. However, there was a part of me asking.

How could he hide in here for more than ten years? How could he do that to me and my stepmother? If he was alive, then who is the person Billy killed? Everything became complicated. He wasn't dead! He was alive and kicking. How could I not be shocked?

A sly smile played on my father's lips as he approached, his piercing gaze assessing the room. "I heard there was a commotion, and I couldn't resist the temptation to see what trouble you've found yourself in this time, Freen."

The man named Pablo, who seemed to recognize father's authority, reluctantly stepped aside, allowing him to take the lead. Dad gestured for me to follow as he led the way through the labyrinthine corridors of the asylum.

"I'm not here for your amusement," I retorted, my frustration bubbling beneath the surface. "Becky's in trouble. They're accusing her of killing your wife, and I need to see her."

Dad's expression shifted, his eyes betraying a glimmer of concern. "Becky Armstrong is here? This complicates things."

I couldn't decipher the complexity of father's motives, but I knew he held a level of influence that could potentially aid Becky's precarious situation. Additionally, he was close to her.

As we approached the entrance to the so-called torture room, the air became dense with an ominous aura. I steeled myself for what awaited inside, a gnawing fear clenching my gut.

"Wait here," he commanded, his tone brooking no argument.

Through the partially opened door, I caught glimpses of grim scenes—screams, cries, and the unmistakable echoes of suffering. My heart raced with a combination of dread and determination. This was the price one paid for crossing the lines of society's expectations.

Moments later, Dad emerged, his expression unreadable. "You may see her, but be cautious. The situation is delicate, and you must tread carefully."

I nodded in acknowledgment, my mind racing with thoughts of how to navigate this treacherous terrain. The line between ally and adversary blurred in my father's presence, leaving me uncertain of where his true loyalties lay.

As I entered the dimly lit room, the stench of despair hung heavy in the air. Becky sat alone, restrained and battered, yet her eyes held a flicker of defiance. She looked up as I approached, a mixture of relief and anguish evident in her gaze.

"Freen," she whispered, her voice strained. "I didn't do it. You have to believe me."

I knelt beside her, my hands reaching for hers through the cold, metal restraints. "I believe you, Becky. We'll find a way out of this together. But first, tell me everything you know about what's happening. We need to unravel the web they've woven around us."

But before Becky could answer, her eyes widened as the door creaked open, revealing an unexpected figure. It was none other than Becky's father—the mastermind behind the framing setup. His entrance sent shockwaves through the room, a revelation that turned everything upside down.

"Dad," I muttered, a mix of disbelief and anger bubbling within me.

"I'm sorry, Freen. I'm sorry," he whispered.

Becky, still in restraints, shot a venomous glare at her father. "What the hell is this, another twisted game of yours?"

Becky's father smirked, a cruel glint in his eyes. "Oh, darling, this is no game. It's a correction—an undoing of a mistake that should never have happened."

The room's atmosphere grew colder, and I could feel the tension escalating. The realization hit me like a punch to the gut—Becky Armstrong's father, the supposed protector, was the mastermind behind the chaos.

"What mistake are you talking about?" I demanded, trying to make sense of the revelation.

Becky's father laughed at my question, and his gaze fixed on Becky as if assessing a piece on a chessboard. "You, my dear, are the mistake. An unplanned glitch in the grand design of the Armstrong legacy. You were never supposed to exist."

Becky's eyes flickered with a mix of confusion and anger. "What are you saying? This is insane!"

Her father continued, revealing a sinister plot that stretched back years—a scheme to eliminate the unintended stain on the Armstrong family name. My stepmother's death, Peony's involvement, and Becky's framing were all part of a meticulously crafted plan to erase the anomaly.

"You were a blemish, an inconvenience. I had to clean up the mess created by your existence," Becky's father declared, his words cutting through the air like a dagger.

As the truth unfolded, the weight of betrayal settled on Becky's shoulders. She had been manipulated by her own father, a puppet in a game designed to eliminate her very existence.

"Dad, do something." I whispered to him, but he remained silent. "Please..." I begged, but he didn't even flinch.

"What do you want from me?" Becky asked, her voice a mix of defiance and desperation.

Becky's father's smile widened. "Simple. You'll take the fall for the mayor's death, and the Armstrong legacy will be cleansed of its imperfection. The family will thrive without the stain of a girl child."

"The mayor is dead?" Becky furrowed her brows and looked at me. "Are you part of this?"

"No. I did it. I'll take the blame." I tried to reach Becky's hand, but my father's men held me in place.

The room became a battleground of conflicting emotions—anger, betrayal, and a determination to defy the twisted fate that had been laid out. As Becky's father reveled in his perceived triumph, a spark of rebellion ignited within us.

This unexpected turn of events left us teetering on the edge of a precipice, the outcome uncertain, and the true intentions of the Armstrong legacy laid bare. The twisted game had transformed into a chilling reality where the puppet master was none other than the architect of our impending downfall.