Page 219 of My Ruthless Husband

I freeze, the blood draining from my face. “What?”

He nods, his lips pressed tight as if he’s trying to keep the tremor in his voice under control. “I don’t know where to start... my mother, she was a single parent, working for your father. It was a demanding job. She worked long hours. So she used to take me with her sometimes.”

I can’t move, can’t speak, my stomach churning.

“The building had an on-site childcare facility, a safe place for kids of single parent employees. I spent a lot of time there, three days a week or more. But I was a mischievous seven-year-old,” he adds, a bitter smile pulling at the corner of his mouth. “I’d sneak off, explore the building. One day… I snuck into your father’s office.”

A chill runs down my spine. The ground beneath me feels like it’s crumbling away.

“I was in the connecting conference room next door. It had a one-way mirror. I could see into your father’s office, but they couldn’t see me.”

I can’t breathe. My heart thuds painfully in my chest, knowing where this is going.

“I saw two men enter first. William Thompson and Richard McAllister. I didn’t recognize them back then. I was just a kid. It wasn’t until much later, when I started digging into your father, that I pieced it together.”

I swallow hard, my throat dry. “You didn’t know who they were up until now?”

“Not even your father. If I had, everything would’ve clicked the moment you said his name at the community center.” His expression darkens. “After those two, two more men came in. One of them was in a plaid shirt and jeans. The other… was your father.”

It feels surreal, like some cruel twist of fate. Matt—Matt, the friend I made at the center, the one who offered me kindness, friendship and warmth when I needed it most—is the key witness to Damian’s father’s murder. The realization crashes into me, knocking the air from my lungs. I feel the bile rise in my throat, my knees weakening.

He keeps going, his voice quieter now. “Your father took the couch. Thompson and McAllister sat across from him. But they didn’t offer a seat to the man in the plaid shirt.” He hesitates, running a hand through his hair. “The guy had this thick file with him. He was flipping through it, talking nonstop, trying to explain something. Your father and the others were listening carefully, watching him like hawks.”

Matt pauses. “I remember being so frustrated. I was hungry, bored, and tired. I wanted to leave, but I knew if I interrupted,my mom would lose her job, and we’d both be in trouble. So, I did the only thing I could—I laid down on the floor and fell asleep.”

Matt suddenly stands, pacing in front of the bench. He rubs his hands over his face, his breathing uneven.

“What happened then?” I whisper.

He stops and stares at the ground, his hands clenched into fists. “I woke up to a gunshot.”

My heart stops.

“The man in the plaid shirt was clutching his arm, blood pouring between his fingers. His face… God, he looked so scared, like a trapped animal. He was looking around the room, desperate for a way out.”

I screw my eyes shut but the image he painted in my head refuses to fade.

“Richard was standing by the door, blocking it. He wasn’t just guarding it—he was smirking, like he was enjoying it. The man tried to say something, pleading with them, tears streaming down his face. But none of them cared. None of them said a word.”

Matt’s voice falters, and he looks away. “Then William shot him again. Twice. Right in the chest.” He stops pacing and grips the back of the bench, his knuckles white. “The man collapsed onto the floor. Right on the file he’d brought… blood and papers everywhere. And your father?” His eyes are filled with disgust. “He just sat there, sipping his whiskey like nothing was happening. Like it was a normal day at the office.”

I feel nauseous, the air around me suffocating.

“I was so scared, River,” Matt whispers, his voice cracking. “I couldn’t move, couldn’t scream. I just froze. I was a kid, hiding in a room, watching a man get murdered. It was too much. I blacked out.”

My father. No, not my father. Christopher Gibson did this. He didn’t just witness it. He orchestrated it. He was the mastermind. He commanded it, oversaw it, and allowed it to happen in the very space where I once thought decisions were made to build, not destroy.

The man I trusted with every ounce of my being, was no better than the monsters he warned me about as a child.

How could he watch an innocent man—a man with hopes, dreams, and a family—being killed.

The man I idolized, who I believed was everything a father should be—strong, loving, protective—was nothing more than a predator in a tailored suit.

And Damian. Damian spent his life trying to claw back something—anything—from the ashes. All while the true villain sat in luxury, unbothered.

I’m proud of my husband. Proud of the lengths he went to, the ruthless precision with which he avenged his father and his family. He didn’t just settle for justice; he made sure they suffered. Slowly. Cruelly. With every painstaking step, he dismantled the lives of those responsible for his family’s destruction, piece by agonizing piece. And I stand by him. I stand by the man who took the empire that shattered his world and made it his own. He’s rebuilt it from the ashes, not as a victim, but as a force that no one will dare to underestimate again.

But Matt’s face, the way his hands tremble, the crack in his voice… He lived through it. My father ruined his life too.

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