Chapter 139 - 138 A Miscalculation
Silence can possess a heavy, physical weight.
The sharp thud of his expensive leather shoes stops directly outside the closet door. My spine goes completely rigid. I press my back against the smooth wooden shelving unit, clutching my folded cotton pajamas tightly against my collarbone.
I hold my breath. I wait for the cold brass handle to turn. I wait for Alistair Wolfe to storm into this narrow space and demand a full explanation for the blatant assault on his luggage. My leg muscles lock into a defensive posture. The scent of his expensive cedar and bergamot cologne surrounds me, clinging to the tailored suits hanging neatly on the racks. The rich aroma makes the small closet feel incredibly claustrophobic. My fingernails dig painfully into the soft cotton fabric of my sleepwear.
The silence stretches on. The anticipation grates violently against my nerves. I prepare myself for his icy glare and his cutting words. I brace myself for the inevitable conflict.
Then, the footsteps resume. They don’t move toward me. They pivot left, moving across the plush carpet, followed by the heavy click of the bathroom door shutting. A few seconds later, the loud, steady rush of water running from the brass faucet fills the suite.
I release a long, shaky exhale. My lungs burn slightly from holding the air in for so long. I quickly strip off my day clothes and pull the soft pajamas over my skin. My hands shake slightly as I fasten the small plastic buttons. The adrenaline slowly bleeds out of my system, leaving me feeling hollow and exhausted.
I peek out of the walk-in closet. The expansive bedroom is completely empty. The silver silk sheets on the king-sized bed look incredibly inviting under the dim glow of the bedside lamps. I scurry across the plush gray carpet and slide under the thick duvet. I pull the covers all the way up to my chin, creating a protective cocoon against the freezing air conditioning blowing from the ceiling vents.
Lying in the dark, my rational brain finally kicks in. I’m completely in the right. He acted like a tyrannical, ungrateful jerk. I offered him a sincere gesture of gratitude, and he threw it into the trash with zero hesitation. I spent an entire hour perfecting the Wolfeberry Banquet formula today. I carefully balanced the sweet hibiscus, the dried wolfberries, and the rich whole milk. I did it because I genuinely appreciated his financial investment in EZ Tea, and because he actively shielded me from Beatrice’s vicious attacks downstairs.
I have absolutely no reason to cower in a closet like a frightened child.
Yet, the sheer, intimidating presence of Alistair is incredibly difficult to ignore. He commands every room he enters. He operates with a cold, calculated ruthlessness that terrifies his corporate rivals and his own family members alike. Crossing him is always a dangerous game, and I just pushed a boundary.
I stare at the smooth white ceiling, analyzing his bizarre outburst. Alistair is cold, but he’s rarely irrational. His violent rejection of the tea makes absolutely no logical sense. He usually ignores things he dislikes. He doesn’t go out of his way to physically destroy them.
Unless he thinks I’m crossing a boundary.
The pieces click together in my head with striking clarity. He thinks I’m developing genuine romantic feelings for him.
He explicitly warned me against that exact scenario weeks ago. He made it perfectly clear that he already loves someone else, and our marriage is nothing more than a legal contract to secure his heir. I promised him I’d keep things strictly professional. I promised I wouldn’t become an emotional burden.
Bringing him late-night snacks and hand-crafting personalized beverages definitely looks like the behavior of a lovesick wife. To a man obsessed with boundaries and contractual obligations, my simple thank-you gift probably looked like a desperate, pathetic attempt to win his affection.
He completely misunderstood my intentions.
I’m not going to waste my breath trying to explain myself. Alistair rarely listens to words anyway. He only respects concrete data and visible results. I’ll simply prove my complete indifference through my actions. Starting tomorrow, he gets zero extra attention. I’ll treat him exactly like a distant, silent business partner. The homemade meals, the polite gestures, and the attempts at friendly conversation are officially over.
I have far more important things to worry about. Zoe and Fiona are scouting commercial properties tomorrow morning. I need to focus entirely on launching EZ Tea and preparing for my enrollment at Vanguard Medical University. Alistair Wolfe can sit in his lonely, freezing fortress all by himself. I close my eyes and force my tense muscles to relax into the mattress, determined to shut him out completely.
*** ALISTAIR ***
The sharp, echoing crack of heavy leather striking polycarbonate carries clearly through the silent bedroom.
I stop walking. I turn my head toward the massive walk-in closet. Emily is in there. The aggressive noise leaves absolutely no room for interpretation. She just kicked my luggage.
I walk slowly toward the open closet door. My tailored charcoal-gray suit feels stifling in the cool, air-conditioned room. I’m highly irritated. The entire interaction with her minutes ago left a bitter, sour taste in my mouth. I don’t appreciate being ambushed in my own bedroom with domestic gestures and handmade drinks.
I stop right outside the door frame. I’m fully prepared to step inside and address the ridiculous temper tantrum. I expect to find her glaring at me, her dark eyes flashing with anger, ready to unleash a barrage of fierce accusations.
My phone vibrates sharply inside my jacket pocket.
I pause, pulling the sleek device free. The bright screen illuminates the dark hallway, spreading a pale glow over the wooden door frame. It is a text message from Jackson, my personal assistant.
Morning flight to Aurora City delayed by three hours. Heavy fog covering the private runway.
I frown, typing out a quick, concise reply instructing him to reschedule the morning acquisition meeting. I stand outside the closet for another ten seconds, staring at the glowing screen. The brief distraction drains the immediate, explosive anger right out of my system.
Confronting an exhausted, furious woman over a scuffed suitcase is a complete waste of my time and energy. I have a multi-million dollar corporate merger to execute tomorrow. I refuse to engage in a petty domestic squabble.
I slide the phone back into my pocket. I pivot on my heel and walk straight into the master bathroom.
I turn on the brass faucet. I splash freezing cold water over my face, letting it drip down my jawline and soak into my crisp white shirt collar. I grip the edges of the smooth marble sink and stare at my reflection in the wide mirror. My icy blue eyes look exhausted. The dark circles under my lower lashes are a permanent fixture these days.
I know exactly why I’m agitated.
I overreacted. Throwing her handmade drink into the garbage was an excessive, brutal move. The sweet, floral scent of the tea still lingers faintly in the air near my desk. I know she was simply offering a gesture of thanks. She wanted to acknowledge my financial investment in her new tea shop. She wanted to thank me for stepping between her and Beatrice downstairs.
But the domestic intimacy of the moment triggered a massive wave of panic.
I can’t afford to accept her warmth. Every time she acts like a caring, devoted partner, the boundaries of our contract blur. Her soft smile and genuine gratitude chip away at my carefully constructed defenses. When she looked at me with those bright, expectant dark eyes, holding that cup of tea she specifically engineered for me, I felt a terrifying, undeniable pull toward her.
I have to keep the lines sharp. I have to remain entirely loyal to Kiki.
That mysterious woman saved my life in the Blackridge Mountains three years ago. She dragged my bleeding, incapacitated body away from armed mercenaries. She held me close, keeping my core temperature up when the military-grade M-209 neurotoxin nearly stopped my heart. I can still remember the exact sensation of her fingers tracing letters into my palm. Finding her is my ultimate priority. Accepting Emily’s affection feels like a dangerous, unforgivable betrayal of the only woman who truly matters.
I have to maintain the distance. If being cruel is the only way to keep Emily away and protect the integrity of our arrangement, then I’ll play the villain.
I grab a thick white towel and dry my face. The rough cotton scratches against my skin. I toss the towel onto the counter and open the bathroom door.
I step out into the dimly lit bedroom. The space is completely silent. I look toward the king-sized bed. Emily is curled into a tight, defensive ball under the silver silk sheets. She has the blanket pulled up past her ears, creating a visible physical barrier between us.
She’s furious. I can see the rigid tension in her spine even through the thick duvet. She is a fighter, and she doesn’t forgive easily. I saw the way she handled Chloe and Professor Chase at Bordeaux 101. I saw the cold calculation in her eyes when she demanded justice.
I stand in the center of the room. The heavy weight of guilt mixes violently with my lingering irritation. I caused that defensive posture. I pushed her away, just like I intended, but the resulting distance feels incredibly hollow. I stare at the small, dark outline of her head against the white pillows.
I rub the back of my neck. My muscles ache with profound exhaustion. I won’t apologize. Apologizing requires vulnerability, and vulnerability is a luxury I simply don’t possess. I turn away from the bed and walk toward the leather sofa on the far side of the room, preparing for another sleepless night.