Harem System: Spending Money On Women For 100% Rebate! - Chapter 343 - 343: She Is Even Crazier!? [FIXED!]

Isabeau’s eyes narrowed, suspicion flickering across her refined features like a candle flame in a draft. She leaned back in her chair, fingers steepled beneath her chin, studying Kyle with the intensity of a jeweler examining a stone for flaws. He could see the wheels turning behind those honey-dark eyes—calculating, probing, trying to discern if he was a threat or an opportunity. Kyle knew he had to stay cheeky, keep the upper hand even zip-tied to a chair with his fate dangling by a thread. A smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth, deliberately cocky, the kind of expression that said he knew more than he was letting on.

“I told you I know who the mole is,” Kyle said, his tone light, almost conversational, as if they were discussing the weather over coffee. “Never said it was you, did I?” He let the words hang, watching her reaction closely. The subtle shift in her posture—spine straightening just a fraction, shoulders tensing—told him he’d hooked her curiosity. “So… who is it?” Isabeau asked, her voice smooth but edged with controlled urgency. She didn’t lean forward, didn’t betray desperation, but the question came too quickly. Kyle had her attention now.

He couldn’t give it up easily. Information was the only currency he had left, and spending it all at once would leave him bankrupt. They were alone in this sterile little office—no guards hovering, no audience to perform for. That granted Kyle a level of comfort, a slim margin of safety. Someone as elegant as Isabeau, draped in Parisian tailoring and expensive perfume, wouldn’t want to stain her manicured hands with his blood. At least, not directly. She’d delegate the dirty work if it came to that. But right now, in this moment, he had leverage.

Kyle sighed theatrically and let his gaze drift up to the ceiling tiles, as if contemplating some deep philosophical truth. The power was in his hands despite the plastic biting into his wrists, despite the bullet-sized hole his life could fall through. He dragged the silence out, forcing her to wait, before finally lowering his eyes back to hers.

“Isabeau,” he began, his voice dropping to a quieter register, intimate almost, “I wonder… does Marcello know you’re in league with Cleopatra?”

Her body remained composed—too composed. Not a flinch, not a blink. But Kyle had spent enough time reading people to catch the microscopic tells: the faint tightening around her jaw, the way her fingers pressed just a bit harder together. Bingo. He pressed on, words flowing with calculated ease.

“Because, see, killing me? That’d be futile. Dumb, even.” He shrugged as much as his restraints allowed. “I’ve made preparations. Dead man’s switch, you could call it. Evidence of your little alliance with Cleopatra—messages, photos, timelines—all set to reach Marcello if I don’t check in. Automatic. No stopping it.” It was a bluff, mostly. Kyle had no such failsafe in place, but she didn’t need to know that. Confidence sold lies as well as truth.

Isabeau’s lips curved into a thin smile, more predatory than amused. She unfolded her hands and waved one dismissively, as if swatting away a fly. “Kill you? Oh, Kyle, you misunderstand. I have no intention of ending your life.” Her tone was honeyed, almost maternal in its reassurance. “The fact that you met with Cleopatra in a private setting tells me everything I need to know. Cleopatra is one of the most cautious women I’ve ever encountered—paranoid, even. If she allowed you into her estate, sat across from you without a bullet in your skull, then you must be on our side. Or useful enough to keep breathing.”

Kyle kept his expression neutral, but inside, relief mixed with wariness. She was buying the angle, but he wasn’t out of the woods yet. Isabeau leaned forward now, elbows on the desk, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper.

“This is a rare opportunity, Kyle. Marcello is vulnerable right now—families gathering, tensions high. We can weaken him, fracture his hold. But I need you to play a role. A very specific one.”

Kyle shifted in his seat, the zip-tie cutting into his wrists like a dull reminder of his captivity. He wasn’t about to roll over just because she dangled a carrot. “Yeah, well, before we get into roles and scripts,” he said, his tone hardening, “how about you unbind me? Hard to have a real conversation when I’m trussed up like a Thanksgiving turkey.”

It was a gamble, pushing his luck when he had none to spare. But confidence was easy to fake, and right now, projection was everything. If he acted like he deserved better treatment, maybe she’d believe it too. Isabeau’s gaze flicked down to his bound wrists, then back up to his face. For a long moment, she said nothing, just studied him with that unreadable expression.

Then, without warning, her hand moved—smooth, practiced—and she pulled a pistol from beneath the desk. Kyle’s heart lurched, adrenaline spiking, but before he could process or protest, she aimed and fired.

The gunshot cracked through the small room like thunder, deafening in the enclosed space. Pain exploded in Kyle’s left arm, white-hot and searing, as the bullet tore through muscle just above his elbow. He screamed—couldn’t help it—the sound ripping from his throat raw and primal. Warm blood bloomed instantly, soaking through his sleeve, trickling down his forearm in thick rivulets. His vision blurred at the edges, shock and agony mingling into a nauseating cocktail.

“WHAT THE FUCK?!” Kyle roared, gasping through clenched teeth, his body jerking against the restraints. “Why—why would you do something so goddamn stupid?!”

Isabeau set the gun down on the desk with a soft click, her expression utterly calm, almost bored. She tilted her head slightly, as if his outburst were mildly curious but ultimately inconsequential. “You talk too much,” she said simply, her voice flat, matter-of-fact. No malice, no regret—just a statement of fact.

Kyle’s breath came in ragged gulps, sweat beading on his forehead as he fought to stay conscious through the pain. His arm throbbed with each heartbeat, blood pooling in his lap. She leaned back in her chair, crossing her legs with elegant ease, and continued as if she hadn’t just shot him.

“Let me clarify something, Kyle. I don’t particularly need you alive. Your so-called ‘evidence’? It will never reach Marcello. I have people—very good people—who’ve already intercepted your pathetic failsafes.” The confidence in her voice was unshakable, a certainty that told Kyle she wasn’t bluffing. She had a counter to his bluff, and it crushed him. “But,” she added, her smile returning, sharper now, “you are still useful. Just… less mouthy.”

She picked up the gun again, turning it over in her hands almost lovingly before setting it back down, this time pushing it slightly toward him so he could see it clearly. “This gun,” she said, tapping the barrel with one manicured nail, “belonged to Viktor Sokolov. His signature weapon. Custom-made, one of a kind—any ballistics expert would confirm it in seconds.” Her eyes glinted with something dark and thrilled. “Come tomorrow, you’re going to stand in front of Marcello and the other family heads and tell them about the mole. Not me, of course. Viktor.”

Kyle’s mind reeled, pain and clarity warring for dominance. She was framing Viktor—using his own gun to shoot Kyle, creating physical evidence to back the lie. Genius. Brutal. Terrifying.

“It’s not Marcello you need to convince,” Isabeau continued, her tone almost instructional, like a professor lecturing a particularly slow student. “It’s the other family heads. They’ll vote on Viktor’s fate. Marcello could veto, sure, but that would draw distrust—favoritism toward his butcher over the collective judgment. Either outcome works for me: Viktor dies, or Marcello looks weak protecting him.”

She stood then, smoothing her blazer with a satisfied sigh, and moved toward the door. But Kyle’s mouth opened before his brain could stop it, rage and adrenaline overriding sense.

“I’m gonna shove my cock so far up your ass,” he snarled through gritted teeth, voice low and venomous, “it’ll open a new hole in your belly.”

The words hung in the air, crude and violent, shocking even him. Isabeau stopped mid-step, turning slowly to face him. Her eyes dropped—not to his face, but to his crotch. Kyle followed her gaze and, to his utter mortification, realized he was hard. The adrenaline, the pain, the fucked-up cocktail of fear and rage had betrayed him, his body reacting in the most primal, inappropriate way possible. Blood loss was making him dizzy, but there it was—an unmistakable bulge straining against his pants.

Isabeau’s eyebrows arched, genuine surprise flickering across her features for the first time. She stared for a beat, then her lips quirked into a slow, wicked smile. “With that?” she murmured, her voice dripping with amusement and something darker—curiosity, maybe. “Who knows, Kyle. Who knows.”

And with that, she turned on her heel and walked out, the door clicking shut behind her with finality.

Almost immediately, the door burst open again, and the guards rushed in, their earlier professional calm replaced by brisk efficiency. They cut the zip-tie, eased Kyle forward as he slumped, clutching his bleeding arm. One of them pressed gauze against the wound, barking orders in French. Another produced a first-aid kit, working quickly to staunch the flow. Kyle’s vision swam, his head lolling back as they worked.

On the desk, gleaming under the fluorescent light, sat the spent bullet casing—brass, small, damning. Viktor’s gun. Viktor’s casing. The frame was set.