Messing With Her? Are You Crazy! novel Chapter 1299

Serena had just finished her fifth-round trial. With one hand tucked casually in her pocket, she strolled right into a camera blind spot.

Phelps Prescott had been waiting for her.

When he heard his father's plan, his bruised, twisted ego finally felt a glimmer of satisfaction.

He had been utterly humiliated by Serena, crushed beneath her heel until he couldn't even lift his head.

She was playing with him. Every time she pushed him to the edge of elimination, she backed off just enough to let him advance.

It was a sadistic game of cat and mouse.

Even though he was one of the only three competitors left in the individual bracket heading into the finals, the advancement felt like pure torture.

He couldn't wait to watch her fall.

So, as his father's security operatives moved into position, Phelps crept closer, eager to get a front-row seat.

He wanted to step on her. He wanted to see if she could still look at him with that infuriatingly arrogant gaze while choking on the floor.

"Serena," Phelps sneered, stepping out of the shadows. His face was contorted in a dark, triumphant smile. "Don't celebrate just yet. Did you really think you were walking out of this arena alive?"

The moment the words left his mouth, two men in tournament security uniforms lunged from the blind spot behind her.

Their eyes locked onto her neck with lethal intent, gripping the syringes filled with neurotoxin tightly.

Phelps's eyes widened in sick anticipation, waiting for her to drop and convulse.

But they didn't even make it within three feet of her.

Serena's expression didn't change. She didn't even look back.

She pivoted with lightning speed, her hand shooting out to catch the lead attacker's wrist. She twisted it backward with brutal force.

Snap!

The sickening crunch of breaking bone echoed in the corridor.

The syringe dropped from the man's limp fingers.

Serena snatched the falling syringe out of the air.

In the same fluid motion, she delivered a devastating kick to the second guard's chest, sending him crashing into the wall.

The door clicked shut. Silence returned to the hallway.

Her breathing hadn't hitched once. She smoothed the cuffs of her sleeves and calmly walked back toward the competitor's lounge.

Half an hour later.

Desmond Prescott rushed to the scene after receiving an alarming text. He threw open the door to the janitor's closet.

Inside, his elite operatives were piled on top of each other in a heap.

At the very top of the pile lay Phelps. His face was a sickly blue, his body stiff as a board, locked in a horrific mask of sheer terror.

"Ah—! Phelps!" Desmond screamed, the blood rushing to his head.

The overwhelming fury caused a surge in his blood pressure. He coughed up a mouthful of blood, his legs giving out as he collapsed in front of the closet.

But he couldn't call for help. He couldn't say a word.

If the authorities looked into this, the Prescott family would be the first to fall.