Chapter 8 Beating Oliver Up

As Theresa wandered further, her attention was drawn to two figures she recognized. Ahead of her, a young man walked alongside a pregnant woman. It was none other than Oliver and his wife, the very couple she had once tricked! "Honey, please calm down. Whatever you want to buy today, it's all on me! Just forgive me—don't stress out and risk the baby!" The woman pouted. "Oliver! I've been trusting you blindly this whole time! That house isn't even yours! You've been deliberately misleading me!" Oliver defended weakly. "I swear, that house really belongs to my family." His wife raged, "Then, explain what happened today! Those people came to our door, claiming the house was theirs! They even made your grandmother so upset that she had to be rushed to the hospital!" He growled viciously, "Honey, I don't know what went wrong either. Theresa sold it to my mom for two million. Once we get in contact with her, we can finalize the transfer!" She shot back, "Hold on a second! Didn't your mother claim that the house still belonged to Theresa? She said it was a loan, which is why my name couldn't be added to the deed. Now, suddenly, you're telling me your family bought it and it's eligible for transfer? What's the truth here?" "Honey, listen, it doesn't matter how it started. That house will eventually be ours! I'm the sole heir of my family—everything they have will belong to me. And what's mine is yours! Just trust me on this, okay?" She became even angrier. "Oliver, how am I supposed to trust you? First, you told me the house was fully renovated and ready to move into, but it turned out to be nothing but bare walls! Then, you swore it was in your family's name, yet debt collectors are now banging on the door! I've had enough! Your family is nothing but a pack of liars. I refuse to bring this child into this mess—I'm going to end it right now!" "Honey! Please, don't! Let's talk this through!" Hidden around the corner, Theresa caught every word of their escalating argument. A smirk crept onto her face, her eyes glinting with amusement. Oh, what a show! The drama unfolding in just ten days was more entertaining than she could've imagined. Her grandmother landing in the hospital was just the cherry on top. But the chaos wasn't over yet—it could still get juicier. She stood idly by, watching Oliver scramble toward the escalator, desperate to catch up with his furious wife. A wicked idea sparked in her mind, and she puckered her lips to let out a sharp, playful whistle. The sound sliced through the air, immediately catching his attention. He whipped his head around, his panicked expression morphing into one of shock as his eyes landed on the girl casually observing the spectacle, her expression oozing amusement. It took him a split second to recognize her. "Theresa!" he bellowed, his voice a mix of anger and disbelief. For a moment, he froze, caught in an impossible dilemma. His wife was already descending to the next floor, her fury driving her further away. Meanwhile, here stood Theresa, the root of all his problems, standing smugly within reach. "Wait! Honey, don't!" he shouted, his voice cracking with desperation. His mind spun wildly. On one hand, his wife was moments away from making good on her threat. On the other hand, Theresa stood within arm's reach, practically daring him to confront her. The weight of the situation pressed down on him, but anger quickly tipped the scales. He clenched his fists and made his decision. To hell with it! If I could drag Theresa to my wife and force her to explain, maybe—just maybe—I could salvage this disaster! He spun around, determination etched on his face, and began clawing his way up the downward-moving escalator. Each step was a struggle, but his anger drove him forward. Meanwhile, Theresa maintained a relaxed pace, almost as if she were out for a casual stroll. Just as Oliver thought he had caught up with her, she slipped onto the descending escalator on the opposite side, effortlessly evading him. This little game of cat and mouse led him on a wild chase through the entire shopping mall. Eventually, the pursuit spilled into the underground parking lot, where the dim lighting cast long shadows across the concrete floor. "You b*tch!" he roared, his voice cracking from exertion. He finally managed to corner her against a cold, unyielding wall. His chest heaved as he pointed an accusing finger at her. "You schemed against me behind my back! I swear, today's the day I end you!" Theresa tilted her head, an amused smirk dancing on her lips. "Oh, is that a threat?" she teased, her tone dripping with mockery. Calmly, she reached out and slammed the trunk of a nearby car shut. "Because I've been waiting for this moment." As she straightened, her hand emerged holding a baseball bat, the metal gleaming ominously under the dim fluorescent lights. The moment Oliver's eyes landed on the baseball bat in her grip, a wave of panic washed over him. "Y-You wouldn't dare lay a finger on me!" he blurted, his voice trembling despite the bravado he tried to muster. His words barely left his mouth before her bat connected with a resounding thud. Without missing a beat, she overpowered him, twisting his jaw out of place to ensure silence. Dragging him like a ragdoll into the farthest, dimmest corner of the parking garage, she began her merciless assault. Ten years of clawing her way through the chaos of a brutal, apocalyptic wasteland had honed her into a lethal force. Dispatching a full-grown man in three swift moves was child's play for her. But Oliver? She decided to show restraint—if one could call it that. For thirty minutes, she worked him over with surgical precision, shattering his arms and legs one by one. Her strikes were cruelly calculated, ensuring maximum agony without delivering a fatal blow. After half an hour, Oliver lay sprawled on the ground, barely clinging to consciousness. Theresa, relaxed against the car, gave his lifeless body a slight nudge with her foot, as if testing whether he was still alive. She bent down, fished his phone out of his pocket, and, with her foot firmly planted on his head, dialed emergency services. "Look at me being so considerate, calling the emergency services for you. You should be thanking me," she taunted. His blood boiled, and if he weren't so battered, he might have screamed! D*mn it! If only she'd lift her foot from my skull for just a second, I'd be thankful enough! "Go to hell..." he managed to mutter weakly. "Tsk, tsk, no gratitude at all. Just like your grandmother. Guess you'll be spending some quality time in the hospital too." With a cruel twist of her foot, she pressed down hard enough to render him unconscious—a deep sleep that would last a full seven days. After that, she meticulously handled the aftermath. She made sure to take all of Oliver's personal identification, ensuring that even if the hospital alerted the authorities, his identity couldn't be traced immediately. She also helped herself to his funds, transferring the entirety of his electronic wallets' balances to her own phone. Since his phone was secured with a fingerprint lock, she simply used his finger to authorize the transactions. Once everything was sorted, she dragged him out to the bar district just outside the parking lot. It was also the same place where she had called the emergency services. Before long, the emergency responders arrived, and Theresa stood there, blending in with the crowd, as they took him away, pretending to be just another passerby. With a composed expression, she stood under a lamppost, using Oliver's phone to send a message to his parents, informing them that he had been attacked and advising them to go to the hospital to find him. After wrapping everything up, she took his phone and sold it to a small roadside shop that dealt in used electronics. She knew that even if the authorities got involved, it would take them at least three days to trace anything back to her. By the time they pieced together Oliver's movements and realized her involvement, the situation would already have spiraled beyond their control. With thirty thousand freshly acquired, courtesy of Oliver, Theresa put the money to immediate use. She went on a spree, emptying several shelves in a convenience store near the mall. Every corner of her car was packed to the brim with essentials, leaving barely any space to breathe. Just as she settled into the driver's seat, a sudden crash jolted her. A man had collapsed against her car door, his body limp and unsteady. Her expression darkened as she surveyed the scene. Moments later, a group of young men and women, dressed in trendy outfits, strolled over with casual indifference. "Sorry about that, gorgeous! My buddy here had a little too much to drink!" one of them—a burly man sporting tattoos—called out with an apologetic wave. Without waiting for a response, they hauled the unconscious man upright. The group, still laughing and chatting among themselves, disappeared into the night as if nothing unusual had occurred. "Unbelievable! Two drinks, and Brandon's already down for the count? The guy used to brag about being a bottomless pit!" Another voice chimed in, "I could've sworn he used to hold his liquor like a champ!" One of the group members laughed. "Must've gone soft after tying the knot! Ha! Marriage really does ruin a man!" Their laughter erupted like fireworks, echoing through the quiet street. "Stop it, I can't breathe—this is too good!" Theresa rested her arm casually against the car window, her sharp eyes following the group's retreating figures. Her attention lingered on the man slumped between them. His head drooped lifelessly, his body unnaturally rigid. The hand that swung limply at his side was deathly pale, starkly out of place amidst the group's carefree revelry. Something about him didn't sit right. However, he began to stir, his eyelids fluttering open. "What just happened to me?" he muttered groggily. "You passed out, genius!" one of his companions shot back with a smirk. "Seriously? That little bit of alcohol knocked you out? Pathetic!" another chimed in with a mocking grin. "Probably just work stress," the man mumbled, rubbing his temples. "I should call it a night and head home." Someone exclaimed, "Head back? Are you kidding? The night's still young! We're drinking till we drop tonight!" The group burst into laughter as they walked away, carefree and boisterous. Theresa, however, sat rooted in place, her gaze sharp and unyielding as she watched their retreating figures. Her fingers slipped into her pocket, retrieving her phone. A quick glance at the screen confirmed her unease—it was 9 August. In her past life, the world had descended into chaos on the 11th. The clock was ticking—the countdown to the apocalypse on 11 August had begun.