You All Gonna Pay For My Mother's Death

"Scarlet Young!"

The shout hit me square in the ears the moment I stepped into my father's office, even before I could fully close the door. My father, David Young, was already glaring at me from behind his mahogany desk. His hands were gripping a stack of documents that seemed far more interesting than I was.

"What do you want, coming here again? What pressing business do you have that you'd dare interrupt my work?!"

No smile, no warm welcome from the person who was supposed to be my parent. I stopped right in the middle of the room. My eyes scanned the lavish office. "Relax, Dad," I said, walking closer, stopping a few feet from his desk. My gaze was steady, piercing his dominant expression. "I won't be long. Just want a little chat with you."

Dad snorted, like an agitated bull. "I don't have time for your pointless chatter. What's your problem? Spit it out, I've got work to do!"

I knew his game. He always belittled me, as if I were just a whining child. I let a small smirk play on my lips. Then, without being asked, I pulled up a chair in front of him and casually dropped into it. I crossed my legs. My elbow rested on the chair's back, and my other hand deliberately held my phone. Dad stared at my legs, then back at my eyes, his disgusted expression not hidden in the least.

"Since when have we ever had a decent conversation? Don't make me laugh, Scarlet."

"Maybe never. But today will be different." I gave a thin smile. "Because this time, our conversation is very important."

He set his pen down. "Say it quickly, don't waste my time."

I let out a sigh, feigning boredom. "Alright, if you want to speed things up." I swiped the phone screen, opening a video file. "Dad likes looking at the past, right? I have something you might enjoy."

I turned my phone so the screen faced him. The video began to play. Dad furrowed his brows, trying to understand what was happening.

The video was a recording taken 15 years ago, with my phone. I was hiding behind a pillar, as my father fought with my mother, defending his mistress. My father slapped and choked my mother by the staircase. In a fit of rage, he punched her, causing her to faint and fall from the third floor of the house. My father is an influential man. His wealth brought him close to several important institutions. My mother's death was considered an ordinary accident. But I was a witness to that event. My mother once told me not to interfere in their arguments. I just needed to hide and record everything secretly.

Dad froze. His hands, which had been resting on the documents, slowly clenched. His eyes were glued to the screen, his face drained of all color. Dad's hand slammed down on the desk.

"What is this?!" His voice thundered.

I pulled