**Chapter 13**
The tension in the air was palpable as the assistant pushed the door open, his voice trembling with concern. “Mr. Mendoza, what’s wrong? What did the person in charge say?”
Winthrop’s eyes flared with a flicker of panic, a storm brewing within him.
“Jake, you need to find out exactly what happened to Yvonne while I was away these past few days! Don’t waste any time!” His voice was urgent, filled with an underlying dread.
Back at the villa, Winthrop sank into his chair at the desk, his brows knitted together in a deep furrow. The weight of the situation pressed down on him like an anvil. He rifled through the records detailing Yvonne’s movements over the last few days, each page a reminder of his absence and her plight.
His heart sank as he read the details. Not long after he had left, Yvonne had been taken to the police station, detained under circumstances he couldn’t fathom. The thought of her being bullied by those sycophantic women in the detention center made his stomach churn.
They had beaten her mercilessly, leaving her with serious injuries. The image of Yvonne, vulnerable and hurt, ignited a fire of rage within him.
In the end, it was Thomas who had intervened, pulling strings to secure Yvonne’s release.
The paper crumpled between his fingers, a testament to his mounting frustration. With a resounding “bang!” he let the documents fly from his grasp, scattering them across the floor like his shattered composure.
Winthrop’s voice dripped with icy fury. “Yvonne accused of theft? And she was beaten and arrested? Who dared to disrespect the mistress of the Mendoza family?”
He could almost entertain the notion of Yvonne stealing something, given their recent arguments. Harsh words had been exchanged, and in a moment of anger, he had frozen her card, cutting her off from the lavish lifestyle she was accustomed to.
She had never had to fend for herself financially; the thought of her struggling was unbearable. Even if she had taken something, he would have willingly paid any price to make things right for her.
But if anyone had the audacity to lay a hand on her—
In Winthrop’s eyes, that was a death wish.
The assistant stammered, caught off guard by the intensity of Winthrop’s fury. Winthrop shot him an impatient glare, demanding clarity.
“Mr. Mendoza, actually, what Ms. Welch stole was your safe, and it was our own people who caught her and… and beat her!” The assistant’s voice quivered, the weight of his revelation crashing down like a tidal wave.
“What did you just say?”
In an instant, Winthrop was on his feet, disbelief etched across his face. He stared at the assistant, struggling to comprehend the absurdity of the situation.
The assistant’s face flushed with regret. “Not long ago, we hired a new batch of bodyguards. You were busy and didn’t have the chance to inform them that Ms. Welch was one of us.”
“So, they mistook Ms. Welch for a thief? Look at the chaos this has caused!”
Winthrop’s anger bubbled over, a dark laughter escaping his lips as he raised an ashtray and brought it crashing down at the assistant’s feet with a deafening “bang.”
The assistant flinched, fear coursing through him, his body trembling like a leaf in a storm.
“Look at what you’ve done! Bring those bodyguards here, now!” Winthrop’s voice sliced through the air, sharp and unforgiving, like a whip cracking across the assistant’s face.
The assistant fled the study, his heart racing as if he were escaping a predator.
Thirty minutes later, five or six bodyguards stood in Winthrop’s study, their bodies trembling under the weight of his fury. The one at the front had already taken a punch, swaying unsteadily on his feet.
“You can’t even recognize your own people. Useless!” Winthrop’s voice boomed, each word laced with venom.
The second bodyguard instinctively raised his hands to block the incoming punch, but Winthrop, fueled by rage, delivered a kick that sent him sprawling several meters away.
“You really went all out, didn’t you? You broke two of my wife’s ribs.” His voice dripped with disdain as he surveyed the chaos.
The remaining bodyguards immediately dropped to their knees, the sound echoing in the silence of the room.
“Sir, we truly didn’t know she was Mrs. Mendoza. We’re so sorry, we were wrong, Sir!” Their voices trembled with fear, desperation lacing their words.
The floor reverberated with the sound of their kneeling, but Winthrop remained unmoved, his heart hardened.
He raised his leg once more, sending another bodyguard flying across the room with a swift kick.
That day, the Mendoza villa resonated with the anguished cries of the bodyguards, the echoes of their pain lingering long into the night.
The following day, Winthrop’s car was parked ominously outside the Baldwin Group, a harbinger of the storm that was about to unfold.
