Helena stared at the evidence for a long time, then slowly smiled.
It was a cold, sharp smile that sent shivers down the spine.
At dinner, the air was suffocatingly tense.
Helena ate in silence, as if the ordeal in the basement had never happened. Then, she suddenly looked up at Jackson. Her tone was unnervingly calm.
"I've thought it through," she said softly.
"I won't go out anymore. I'll stay home and continue my research in the lab."
Jackson paused mid-cut, his knife and fork hovering in the air. He studied her carefully.
Her expression was blank, almost numb—like someone who had finally accepted her fate.
"That's good," he said approvingly.
He set down his cutlery, his tone softening, as if granting mercy. "You can focus on your research here. I'll help compile your work into a paper for publication."
Helena's eyes flickered with a cold, mocking light.
'Help me publish?' she thought bitterly. 'You mean give them to Laica—to pave her way to glory with my blood and sweat.'
But she nodded obediently, playing her part. Then she rose and walked upstairs.
When she returned, she was holding a thick stack of documents in her hands.