Chapter 113 - 112 Apologize To Them
**[ALISTAIR]**
The physical weight of Emily’s bandaged hand resting in the crook of my arm completely paralyzes the complex, heavily guarded machinery of my nervous system.
I am a man who dictates the flow of international capital without a second thought. I negotiate multi-billion dollar hostile takeovers with a resting pulse. Yet, the simple, unprompted pressure of my wife’s fingers gripping my bicep causes an immediate, involuntary lockdown of my muscles beneath my tailored charcoal suit. She is not hiding behind me. She is using me as a physical anchor, a solid foundation of absolute power, as she delivers her final, devastating verdict to the trembling academic across the room.
She demanded formal justice for herself, and for her husband.
I do not look down at her. I keep my eyes locked onto the pathetic, rumpled figure of Professor Chase. But a dark, fierce wave of absolute pride surges through my chest, drowning out the initial shock of her touch. She is a spectacular, terrifying force of nature.
**[PROFESSOR CHASE]**
The heavy, soundproofed air of the VIP dining room feels like a physical vice crushing my ribs.
I stand near the heavy oak door, my expensive leather shoes rooted to the thick, custom-loomed carpet. I look at the dark-haired woman holding onto the massive, terrifying man in the charcoal suit. She is demanding justice. She is demanding an apology.
A sickening, suffocating wave of profound dejection washes over me, completely extinguishing the righteous, pompous fury that fueled my entrance into this room.
I am a tenured director. I spent the last three decades meticulously building an untouchable academic reputation. I cultivated powerful connections. I secured millions in private research funding. And I just risked every single ounce of my life’s work because I allowed a twenty-year-old girl with a few fake tears to manipulate my massive ego.
My pride blinded me. I was so deeply intoxicated by the idea of playing the heroic, civilized savior against the criminal underworld that I marched blindly into a trap. I trusted Chloe Vance. I trusted her manufactured fragility over basic, logical investigation. My absolute gullibility nearly cost me my freedom, my career, and possibly my life at the hands of the Azure Syndicate.
The profound regret tastes like bitter battery acid in the back of my throat.
I slowly turn my head. I look at the blonde girl cowering against the mahogany wall paneling.
The paternal, protective warmth I felt for my star pupil just ten minutes ago is entirely gone. It is replaced by a cold, toxic disgust. She used me. She weaponized my title to fight a petty, domestic war against her own stepsister, and she left me entirely exposed to the fallout.
"Chloe," I say. My voice is a low, hollow rasp, completely drained of its booming authority.
Chloe flinches, pressing her spine harder against the dark wood. She looks up at me with wide, panicked blue eyes.
"Apologize to them," I order her.
My command is not a request. It is a harsh, unyielding demand born of sheer, desperate self-preservation. I need to appease the monsters sitting at that table before Warren Sinclair decides to change his mind and order a federal investigation into my laboratory.
"Apologize to her, and apologize to her husband," I repeat, my tone hardening into a vicious snarl. "Right now."
**[CHLOE]**
The command hits me like a physical slap to the face.
I stare at Professor Chase. The man who was supposed to be my impenetrable shield is now actively handing me over to the executioner. He is throwing me to the wolves to save his own pathetic skin.
I shift my gaze past his rumpled tweed shoulder. I look directly at Emily.
She stands there, entirely calm, her hand resting comfortably on the arm of her massive guard dog. She does not look angry. She looks completely, clinically satisfied.
A sudden, blinding flash of realization pierces through my panic.
She set me up.
She had the audio recording on her phone the entire time. She could have played it in the hallway. She could have played it the exact second we walked into the dining room. But she didn’t. She deliberately waited. She sat in silence and let me build my massive, tragic lie. She let the professor scream his threats. She let the stakes climb higher and higher, waiting for the absolute perfect moment to drop the digital anvil on my head.
She engineered this entire spectacular humiliation.
A hot, corrosive resentment boils up from the very pit of my stomach, burning my throat. My jaw clenches so tightly that my teeth grind together with a harsh, audible scrape. The sheer injustice of it makes my vision swim. I am the golden child. I am the top academic scholar. I do not bow to medical dropouts and minimum-wage security guards.
"No," I whisper.
I stubbornly cross my arms over the metallic silver fabric of my dress. I lift my chin, suppressing the terror threatening to break my composure.
"I will not do it," I state, my voice trembling with suppressed rage. "I am not apologizing to her."
Professor Chase’s face contorts into a mask of absolute, unadulterated hatred. He takes a sudden, aggressive step toward me, entirely abandoning the polite boundaries of academia.
"You will apologize this exact second, you manipulative little brat," Chase hisses, his face inches from mine. Spittle hits my cheek. "Or I will personally ensure your university transcripts are shredded before midnight. Do it!"
The threat of losing my academic standing completely traps me. I have absolutely no leverage left. Julian Thorne is hiding by the door, completely useless.
I squeeze my eyes shut. I swallow the thick, bitter lump of pride blocking my airway.
"I’m sorry," I mumble. The words are rushed, quiet, and completely devoid of any genuine remorse. They are just empty syllables thrown into the air to satisfy the old man screaming in my face.
I open my eyes, expecting the ordeal to be over. I expect Emily to take her pathetic, forced victory and let me walk out the door.
**[EMILY]**
"No," I say smoothly.
The single syllable cuts cleanly through the heavy atmosphere of the room.
I slowly slide my hand off Alistair’s bicep. The sudden absence of my touch causes the CEO to exhale a very slow, highly controlled breath. I step away from him, walking deliberately toward the center of the room.
I look at Chloe. She stands against the wall, her arms crossed defensively, her ruined makeup making her look like a petulant, exhausted child.
"A mumbled, forced whisper aimed at the carpet is not an apology," I inform her coldly. "It is a temper tantrum. I expect a formal, respectful demonstration of remorse."
"You got your apology!" Chloe snaps, her voice cracking with hysterical frustration. "Leave me alone!"
I do not argue with her. I simply reach into the pocket of my navy blazer.
I pull out my sleek smartphone again. The bright screen illuminates the dim space between us.
"The Asuir Medical University internal student forum," I muse aloud, tapping the glass screen with my bandaged thumb. "It is a highly active digital community. Thousands of undergraduate students, doctoral candidates, and faculty members check it daily."
Chloe stops breathing. Her arms drop slowly to her sides.
"You pride yourself on your academic reputation, Chloe," I continue, keeping my eyes fixed firmly on the digital screen. "You constantly remind everyone that you were the absolute top scorer in the college entrance examinations. You cultivate the image of the perfect, flawless, untouchable scholar."
I lift my head and meet her terrified blue eyes.
"What do you think happens to that pristine, golden reputation if I upload this unedited audio file directly to the main discussion board?" I ask softly. "The entire student body will hear exactly how the top scorer speaks behind closed doors. They will hear the venom. They will hear the lies. You will become a total social pariah before your morning classes even begin."
The threat is absolute, nuclear devastation to her specific worldview.
Chloe’s entire body goes completely rigid. The color drains rapidly from her face, leaving her looking sickly and hollow. The arrogant, stubborn defiance vanishes instantly, completely crushed by the sheer, suffocating panic of impending social ruin. For someone whose entire existence relies on external validation and perceived superiority, public humiliation is a fate far worse than physical violence.
She cannot fight back. She cannot manipulate her way out of a digital upload.
She slowly uncrosses her arms. She takes a stiff, wooden step away from the mahogany wall paneling, moving into the open space of the thick carpet.
She forces her spine to straighten. She locks her knees.
Then, with agonizing, excruciating slowness, Chloe bends at the waist.
She executes a flawless, formal, ninety-degree bow. Her upper body is completely parallel to the floor. Her blonde curls hang down, hiding her face entirely from my view.
"I am deeply sorry, Emily," Chloe says. Her voice is completely stripped of its venom. It is loud, clear, and perfectly enunciated, carrying across the silent dining room. "I was entirely in the wrong. Please accept my formal apology for my actions."
I stand perfectly still and observe her posture.
Her back is straight, but her arms are pinned rigidly to her sides. Her manicured hands are curled into incredibly tight fists. The knuckles are stark white against her pale skin. I can see the subtle, violent trembling in her shoulders. She is vibrating with a suppressed, agonizing resentment. She hates me with every single fiber of her being, but she is physically bowing to me.
The clinical satisfaction in my chest solidifies.
"Accepted," I reply simply.
Chloe immediately snaps back into a standing position, gasping slightly as if the physical act of bowing had deprived her of oxygen. Her blue eyes are burning with a dark, toxic hatred. She turns her body, ready to bolt toward the heavy oak door.
"You are not finished," I state, my voice dropping back into a cold, unyielding register.
Chloe freezes. She looks at me, her chest heaving with fresh panic.
I raise my bandaged hand and point directly past her shoulder, aiming my finger at the massive man sitting silently in the tailored charcoal suit.
"I told you," I remind her smoothly, "that you would never, ever insult Mr. Wolfe. You dragged his name into your pathetic lies. You owe my husband the exact same formal respect you just gave me."
**[CHLOE]**
The demand hits me like a physical blow to the stomach.
I slowly turn my head. I look at the terrifying giant sitting at the mahogany table. His piercing green eyes are completely dead, devoid of any human warmth. He watches me with the casual, absolute apathy of a man who could crush my skull with his bare hands and not lose a single second of sleep over it.
A fresh, sickening wave of pure, unadulterated bile rises in my throat.
Bowing to Emily was an agonizing humiliation. But bowing to *him*?
He is nothing. He is a nobody. He does not have a legacy. He does not have a prestigious family name. He is just a massive brute who stands in hallways and takes orders from Warren Sinclair. He is a lowly, minimum-wage bodyguard playing dress-up in an expensive suit. The sheer indignity of a Vance—the top scholar of the university—being forced to bow to a common, blue-collar servant makes my skin actually crawl.
I want to scream. I want to spit on his polished leather shoes.
But Emily’s thumb is still hovering dangerously over the glowing screen of her smartphone.
I swallow the bitter, suffocating hatred. I turn my body until I am facing the massive bodyguard directly. I lock my knees again. I close my eyes, completely unable to look at his face as I surrender my dignity to the floor.
I bend sharply at the waist, executing a second, rigid ninety-degree bow.
"I am sorry," I force the words out of my throat. They feel like jagged glass scraping against my vocal cords. "Please accept my apology, Mr. Wolfe."
I hold the humiliating position. I wait for the lowly thug to gloat. I expect him to laugh, or to throw some crude, uneducated insult at me to celebrate his pathetic victory over his betters.
**[ALISTAIR]**
I look down at the blonde woman folded in half on the custom-loomed carpet.
Her fists are shaking with suppressed, violent rage. She is radiating an intense, arrogant hatred. She clearly despises the fact that she is bowing to a man she believes is completely beneath her on the social ladder. The irony of the situation is almost entirely poetic. She is bowing to the absolute apex predator of the Asuir financial sector, and she is too blinded by her own delusion to even realize the magnitude of the power sitting in front of her.
I do not gloat. I do not raise my voice. I do not require validation from insignificant insects.
"Accepted," I state. My voice is a low, freezing rumble that offers absolutely zero forgiveness.
**[EMILY]**
Chloe shoots upright the exact second Alistair speaks. Her face is flushed with a dark, ugly crimson. She does not look at me. She does not look at Alistair or Warren.
"You may leave," I tell her, dismissing her with the casual indifference one uses to shoo away a stray dog.
It is the final, shattering blow to her ego.
Chloe lets out a strangled, pathetic sob. She turns on her heel and practically throws herself at the heavy oak door. She grabs the brass handle, yanks the door open, and flees into the dimly lit VIP corridor, the sound of her expensive stilettos echoing frantically as she runs toward the elevators. Julian Thorne does not say a word; he simply slips out the door right behind her, eager to escape the suffocating room.
Professor Chase watches his star pupil run away. He lets out a heavy, defeated sigh, his shoulders sagging beneath his rumpled tweed jacket.
The academic turns his back on the mahogany table, dragging his feet across the carpet as he prepares to follow her out. He looks twenty years older than he did when he stormed into the booth.
"Professor Chase," I call out.
The older man stops instantly. His hand hovers over the brass doorknob. His entire body tenses with a fresh wave of panic. He slowly turns his head, looking back at me with deep, exhausted impatience and a poorly concealed undercurrent of sheer terror.
"What else?" Chase asks, his voice cracking slightly. "What else could you possibly request from me?"