Chapter 192 – Second Chance Love of the Missing Groom Novel

In turn, Stan stepped out to speak with the officer standing guard, who left soon after.

Quincy started to panic. “What are you doing?”

Stan replied, “While the law will punish a heinous bitch like you, you’re still going to suffer a little before that.”

As he spoke, he took out several objects from his pocket.

There was a small white bottle, a switchblade, and a lighter.

None of them were particularly deadly, but with a little work, it could still inflict damage to the human body.

Quincy therefore had to act calm. “We’re in a police station.”

Stan chuckled. “We know that, so we won’t do anything stupid. That said, I’m quite close with that officer just now, so he’s willing to give us some space.”

Quinc’ys face paled, even as Stan took off his tie and stuffed it into her mouth.

Diarmuid rose to his feet as well, picking up the switchblade and ejecting the blade-it was not particularly huge, but very sharp.

“I can do it, sir,” Stan said, walking up to him.

Diarmuid, however, stayed silent as he walked around the table toward Quincy and pressed the blade against Quincy’s face.

He just needed to apply little pressure, and the blade would cut through Quincy’s skin.

Quincy could only whimper, her pupils dilating as her whole body stiffened.

She felt like she was meat on the butcher’s table, and it was even more terrifying than the prospect of death.

After all, death was easy-one would not know it after the fact.

On the other hand, spiritual torment certainly left one wishing they were dead.

“You pushed me into that pond during my own parents’ funeral.” As Diarmuid spoke, he slid the switchblade from Quincy’s face to her neck, and she did not move at all-she was basically frozen.

He gently pressed it, and the blade cut through Quincy’s skin.

She did not bleed much since he avoided any arteries-but it hurt.

He could be precise, because he had been sneaking glances while Abigail studied her medical books, which described at length about a human’s vulnerable spots, where it hurt or had the least blood vessels.

Although the neck was a vulnerable spot especially given the jugular, there was a spot one could reach. there, free from blood vessels but rife with nerves, making it exceedingly sensitive.

In fact, Quincy was already sweating buckets as her face turned pale. Her pupils dilated even as she felt death loomed, but her mind somehow remained clear.

Stan, who had been standing aside, appeared worried that Diarmuid would get butterfingers and slit her throat. Walking up, he said, “Leave it.”

Diarmuid looked up at him, his expression inscrutable.

Stan kept trying. “She may be heinous, but she’s not worth getting your hands dirty over.”

However, Diarmuid suddenly plunged the switchblade into Quincy’s shoulder even before he could finish.

As he pulled it out, he gave Stan a look. “Don’t disappoint me.”

Quincy was whimpering miserably, her facial features contorted from pain.

Stan could not help shuddering and sighing.

Still, despite his disgust and knowledge that Quincy deserved it, he pretended to look sympathetic. Picking up the white bottle, he said, “Oh, poor you. Don’t worry-I’ll disinfect you.”

Quincy certainly knew that he was not that kind-whatever was in that bottle was going to hurt her. She tried to struggle as hard as she could, but her restraints kept her in the chair.

The feeling of being at someone else’s mercy was as grilling as it was horrifying.

She shuddered, her pupils darting about.

As Stan opened the bottle, he explained, “This is sulfuric acid. It would help close your wound.” “Umph-Umph-

Quincy tried to scream in fear, but her mouth was gag, keeping her voice muffled.

Stan was not feeling merciful, however-she had killed Diarmuid’s parents just to get her hands on the Althoffs’ fortune, and Diarmuid himself soon after he was bereaved.

She was heinous beyond words, and deserved anything they put her through.

“Just relax. I’ll be done soon.”

Stan deliberately held the bottle in front of her and allowed a small drop to trickle out of the bottle onto her wound instead of pouring it right away.

Quincy’s eyes bulged and widened, turning bloodshot instantly.

As Stan allowed more drops to trickle out of the bottle, there was a scent of something burning in the air.

Quincy was grunting in pain.

“Mmph!!! Mmph!!!”

She fainted from the pain in minutes, but Stan simply splashed her with the drinking water on the table to wake her and repeated the process.

The same cycle continued for a while until Quincy was half–dead, and Stan finally put away his tools, saying. “No one will care about her in there.”

In other words, people would not ask questions about her injuries, let alone tend to it.

Beside them, Diarmuid was not reacting at all–his heart’s anguish could not be placated no matter how much Quincy suffered.

The memories of his parents‘ deaths was the most terrible memory he had, more so than the memory of almost dying from drowning.

Eventually, he stepped out of the visitor’s room and saw Henry.

Once again he was not reacting at all, and there was no warmth to be found in his eyes.

“Shall we talk?” Henry asked.

Diarmuid stayed silent but did not refuse, while Henry traded glances with Moneypenny and breathed sighs of relief.

If Diarmuid was willing to talk, there just might be hope for Light Group to turn things around.

Henry was certainly optimistic, holding on to Moneypenny so that he could keep pace with Diarmuid.

Once they were outside, Henry said, “I can help you with Quincy.”

He was trying to sell him a favor, and Diarmuid naturally knew that. “I might have bought that before,” he said coolly, “but now that she is awaiting trial and basically doomed, what can you help me with?”

Henry was instantly silenced–he had kept protecting Greg’s family and still did not understand his mistake.

All he cared about was that he lost a son, and refused to lose another.

That was why he took upon himself to raise Diarmuid, in hopes that he would give up on his hatred.

And yet…

“She deserved it. Greg has been punished too–he’s now paraplegic and would be wheelchair–bound for the rest of his life. But lan never knew and was never involved, so can’t you-”

“No.” Diarmuid’s response was simple and certain.

It was already his final act of sentiment that he did not immediately turn against Henry.

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