Sign the Papers Mr. Langford novel Chapter 353

But she knew weaponized pity had an expiration date.

She needed something physical, something she could hold as leverage.

As she strutted out of Langford Medical, the Whitaker family chauffeur called.

"Miss Willow, Madam is asking if you'll be returning home for dinner tonight."

Willow was about to brush him off when her phone buzzed again.

It was a text from Lydia Whitaker.

*Your father just got a call from the warehouse management. The lawyer's letter arrived. We can't delay Unit 3 any longer.*

Willow stopped dead in her tracks.

She stared at the message, the frantic rage in her eyes cooling into something far more dangerous.

Unit 3.

Vivian Vance.

Wren Whitaker.

Since everyone in the city was eagerly flocking to Wren's side, it was time to chain her to a graveyard of old skeletons. She wanted to see if a woman juggling a child, a high-stakes medical project, and an aggressive murder investigation could truly maintain her polished, unshakeable composure forever.

Willow typed a rapid reply to Lydia.

*I'm heading back right now.*

The Whitaker Estate looked even more sterile and hollow in the daylight than it did at night.

Following Vivian's death, the second-floor study had been gutted and converted into Willow's massive walk-in closet. Wren had brought a lawyer there once and thoroughly ransacked the wardrobe, leaving it a disaster zone for a full day. Lydia had cursed Wren out for weeks afterward, branding her as a toxic jinx who refused to let go of a dead woman's ghost.

As Willow walked into the grand living room, Lydia was in the middle of a screaming match with Quentin Whitaker.

"I told you to torch it all back then!" Lydia hissed, her face completely drained of color. "You swore no one would ever stumble into a forgotten warehouse. Well, look at us now—the damn legal papers are here!"

Quentin sat heavily on the sofa, slamming his teacup onto the glass table.

"Keep your voice down."

"What good is whispering going to do?" Lydia shrieked, her eyes bloodshot. "Wren is digging into this like a rabid dog! Do you honestly think you can block her forever?"

Willow loitered in the foyer, choosing not to announce her presence just yet.

When Quentin finally spotted her, his scowl deepened.

"What are you doing here?"

Willow swapped her heels for slippers and strolled gracefully into the room.

"Is this a private conversation?"

Lydia immediately grabbed her arm. "Willow, this has absolutely nothing to do with you."

It had been a blind gamble.

Last night, she had only caught a glimpse of half a title through a crack in a door. But Lydia's visceral panic had just handed her the smoking gun on a silver platter.

Willow lowered her eyelashes to conceal her triumph.

"So, the project really existed."

Quentin sprang up from the sofa. "Who told you that? Was it Lawrence?"

"Does it matter?" Willow tilted her chin up. "Because Wren is going to find out very soon."

Quentin's chest heaved like a cornered animal trying to suppress a monstrous rage.

Lydia gripped the armrest of the couch so hard her manicured nails gouged lines into the expensive leather.

Watching them spiral, Willow smoothed out her voice, making it sickeningly sweet.

"Mom. Dad. If you refuse to tell me the truth, I'll be forced to connect the dots myself. And if I make one wrong move, I might accidentally blow this whole thing up in your faces."

A flicker of desperate hesitation crossed Lydia's eyes.

But Quentin merely gritted his teeth. "Stay the hell away from Unit 3."

"Then look me in the eye and tell me if there's still evidence rotting in that room."

Quentin didn't say a word.