Sign the Papers Mr. Langford novel Chapter 170

Scott stayed silent for two agonizing seconds. "Fine."

The staff member beside him panicked. "Mr. Clarke, we can't just—"

"Take her to The Records Room," Scott ordered.

Wren nodded. "Thank you."

She spun on her heel to leave.

Lawrence reached out, intent on stopping her.

Wren glanced back over her shoulder.

She didn't say a single word.

Lawrence's hand froze in midair.

The angry red marks on her wrist had faded significantly, but the sheer disgust in her eyes from that day remained branded in his memory.

Repulsive.

She hadn't spoken the word aloud, but it hit him like a physical blow.

He slowly lowered his arm.

Julian stepped forward.

"I'll go with you."

Wren shot him a brief look but didn't decline.

Phoebe and Maya swiftly fell into step behind them.

Rooted to the floor, Lawrence watched the group vanish toward the backstage area.

Wren never once looked back.

Sitting next to Eleanor, Willow observed the entire exchange from a distance.

The wine glass in her hand had gone completely warm from her vice-like grip.

When she published the anonymous post, she had anticipated a thousand different reactions.

She expected Wren to panic, to be hounded by the press, to be dragged into a corner by Lawrence, completely humiliated in front of the city's elite.

Instead, Wren hadn't batted an eye.

She marched straight up to Scott Clarke.

And the absolute worst part was that Scott had actually granted her access to The Records Room.

Willow lowered her gaze and took a tiny, bitter sip of her wine.

The alcohol tasted like ash.

She hated it.

She hated everything about these obnoxious galas where everyone stood around trading fake smiles, and she absolutely loathed Lawrence's perpetual glare, acting like the entire world owed him a massive debt.

If he weren't the reigning head of the Langford empire, she would never give him a second glance.

But the harsh reality was, he was in charge.

Backed by Langford Medical, Eleanor's wealth, and the sickeningly sweet courtesy people offered whenever they addressed her as "Ms. Whitaker."

She had never given a damn about the man himself.

So incredibly useful that she almost forgot it wasn't a choice she ever wanted to make.

It was just the only survival tactic she had left.

The Records Room behind the banquet hall was claustrophobic.

Several archaic computers lined the walls, and the backup drive for the gala's tribute video sat on the main desk. A staff member clicked open a folder, their hands visibly trembling.

"Ms. Whitaker, all the historical photos in the video were pulled straight from the foundation's old archives, and a lot of them aren't properly labeled."

Phoebe stepped up beside them. "Then let's track it down based on the timestamp from the broadcast."

Maya had already taken control of the mouse, yanking the video's timeline back into view.

"That specific photo flashed around the three-minute and twenty-second mark."

The footage on the screen rolled backward frame by frame.

Medical missions.

Donations.

Group shots.

Equipment transports.

Maya paused the playback.

The photo reappeared on the monitor.

A youthful Vivian Vance stood next to the antiquated machinery, dressed in a simple light-colored blouse. Standing right next to her were Margaret Langford, Scott Clarke, and a man whose face Wren didn't recognize at all.