Chapter 138 - 137 The Wolfeberry Banquet
***[EMILY]***
The rich aroma of roasted beef and melting mozzarella suddenly feels completely absurd inside this pristine bedroom. I stand near the heavy oak door, balancing the warm cardboard box on my left arm and gripping the cold plastic cup in my right hand.
Alistair steps out of the massive walk-in closet. He completely ignores my unexpected arrival. He wears a perfectly tailored charcoal-gray suit, his broad shoulders and lean waist cutting a sharp silhouette against the stark white walls. His dark hair is flawlessly styled, pushed back from his forehead to reveal his piercing icy eyes. He adjusts a silver cufflink at his wrist with practiced, rigid precision.
"You are packing," I say. I glance past his tall frame toward the open closet door. A sleek, hard-shell black suitcase sits partially zipped on the carpeted floor.
"I am traveling to Aurora City tomorrow morning," Alistair replies. His voice is cold and even, completely devoid of any warmth. He walks over to the glass coffee table and picks up a stack of printed financial reports. "I have a scheduled business trip. The board requires my physical presence to finalize a corporate acquisition."
I watch him shuffle the papers into a neat pile. A sudden, sharp pang of envy hits the back of my throat. I picture stepping onto a private jet and leaving Vanguard City entirely behind. I picture escaping the suffocating politics of the Wolfe family, escaping the demanding startup schedule with Zoe, and escaping the constant, exhausting pressure of this contractual marriage. He gets to walk away from the chaos for a few days. I am stuck here navigating the minefield.
I push the envy down and step further into the spacious room. The soles of my heavy boots sink slightly into the plush gray carpet.
"I brought you something," I say. I walk toward the glass table and set the warm pizza box down right next to his financial documents. I place the sealed plastic cup directly beside it. "Fiona and her mother reopened their shop today. I picked up a fresh beef pizza, and I brought you a drink from the cafe."
Alistair stops organizing his papers. He looks down at the cardboard box and the plastic cup. His expression remains entirely blank. He does not reach for the food.
"I do not have the habit of eating late-night snacks," Alistair states flatly. He turns his icy blue eyes toward me, projecting absolute indifference. "Take it away. The grease will ruin these documents."
I press my lips together, keeping my expression perfectly neutral. I anticipated a cold reception, but I still want to finish my gesture. I point to the cold plastic cup sweating condensation onto the glass table. The liquid inside is a vibrant, deep red, layered perfectly over creamy white milk.
"You do not have to eat the pizza," I tell him. "But you should try the tea. I engineered this specific flavor profile myself during my testing phase this afternoon. It is a very precise blend of dried wolfberries, sweet hibiscus, and fresh whole milk. It balances sweet and sour notes perfectly."
Alistair stares at the red liquid. He crosses his arms over his chest, waiting for me to finish my explanation.
"I named it the Wolfeberry Banquet," I say. I offer him a small, genuine smile. "I incorporated your family name into the title. I simply wanted to say thank you. You provided the initial startup capital I needed, and you actively shielded me from Beatrice and the rest of your relatives downstairs. I appreciate your protection. This is my way of showing gratitude."
Silence stretches heavily across the freezing bedroom. The cold air blowing from the ceiling vents chills the damp skin on my neck. I expect him to offer a curt nod of acknowledgment. I expect him to take a single, polite sip and return to his paperwork.
Alistair reaches out with his long, elegant fingers. He picks up the plastic cup.
He does not bring the straw to his mouth. He turns on his heel, walking two steps toward the sleek stainless steel trash can sitting near his mahogany desk. He holds the cup directly over the open bin. He opens his fingers.
The heavy plastic cup drops. The liquid sloshes violently as it hits the bottom of the empty metal bin with a loud, definitive thud.
I freeze completely. My breathing stops.
"Stop playing these boring games, Emily," Alistair says. He turns back to face me, his striking features locked into a mask of pure irritation. "I told you exactly where we stand. Do not try to worm your way into my personal life with trivial gifts and poorly disguised sentiment. Keep your focus on your contractual obligations."
The heat rushes instantly to my face, burning my cheeks like a physical slap. My jaw locks so tightly my back teeth begin to ache. The sheer disrespect of his action completely paralyzes me for a long, agonizing second. I spent careful, deliberate time balancing the chemical extraction of those wolfberries. I crafted that drink as a sincere, olive-branch gesture to the man who saved my life in front of my abusive family.
He just threw it away like actual garbage.
My fingers curl into tight fists at my sides. The fingernails dig painfully into my palms. I want to scream at him. I want to grab the pizza box and throw the hot, greasy slices directly onto his immaculate tailored suit. I want to demand an apology for his incredible arrogance.
The urge to scream dies before it reaches my throat. I stare at his cold, unyielding blue eyes. This is not my failing. I offered genuine gratitude, and he chose to act like a paranoid tyrant. Fighting with him right now will only validate his ridiculous assumption that I am playing some sort of emotional game.
I do not speak a single word. I reach out and grab the warm pizza box from the glass table. The cardboard crunches under my aggressive grip. I turn my back on him and march straight toward the heavy oak door.
I pull the door open and step out into the long, silent corridor. The marble floors are freezing through my socks, but I barely register the temperature. My blood is boiling. I walk rapidly toward the grand staircase, my heavy footsteps echoing loudly against the high vaulted ceilings. The estate is completely deserted at this hour. The massive crystal chandeliers are dimmed, casting long, imposing shadows across the expensive artwork lining the walls.
I reach the ground floor and navigate the winding halls toward the primary kitchen. The space is absolutely massive, featuring dual industrial ovens and endless rows of polished white countertops. The silence in the room is deafening.
I walk straight to the commercial stainless steel refrigerator. I pull the heavy metal handle. The internal light switches on, blinding me for a brief second. A blast of frigid air washes over my burning face. I shove the dented cardboard pizza box onto a reinforced glass shelf, pushing it forcefully between a carton of expensive imported water and a bowl of fresh fruit.
I slam the refrigerator door shut. The metallic bang rings sharply through the empty kitchen, providing a tiny, unsatisfactory release for my boiling anger.
I lean my back against the cold steel door, closing my eyes. I take a long, deep breath, forcing oxygen into my burning lungs. He went entirely too far. Rejecting the food is one thing, but tossing a handmade gift into the trash while looking me directly in the eye is a calculated insult. He is terrified of any genuine human connection. He surrounds himself with massive walls of wealth and paranoia, completely isolating himself from the rest of the world.
He can stay in his miserable, lonely fortress. I am done trying to bridge the gap.
I push myself off the refrigerator and walk back through the dark, silent halls. I climb the grand staircase, my leg muscles burning slightly from the steep incline. I reach the heavy oak door of our shared suite. I grab the brass handle and push it open.
Alistair is sitting on the dark leather sofa. He holds a sleek digital tablet in his hand, his eyes scanning the glowing screen with intense focus. He does not look up when I enter the room.
I ignore him completely. I walk straight past the sofa, keeping my eyes fixed firmly straight ahead. I grab my folded cotton pajamas from the edge of the mattress and march directly into the massive walk-in closet.
The space is larger than my entire old apartment. Rows of expensive designer suits, pristine silk ties, and custom Italian leather shoes line the illuminated wooden shelves. The air smells strongly of expensive cedar wood and subtle masculine cologne.
His hard-shell black suitcase sits directly in the center of the plush carpet, fully packed and ready for his early morning flight to Aurora City.
The sight of his perfectly organized luggage triggers a fresh, violent wave of absolute fury. I remember the loud thud of my plastic cup hitting the bottom of his trash can. I remember the cold, dismissive tone of his voice calling my gratitude a boring game.
I swing my right leg backward. I launch my heavy leather boot forward with every single ounce of strength I possess.
My foot connects violently with the polycarbonate shell of his expensive suitcase. A loud, sharp crack echoes explosively in the confined space. The heavy luggage skids aggressively across the carpet, slamming hard into the base of a wooden shelving unit. Several empty wooden hangers rattle loudly against the metal clothing rack above my head.
I freeze instantly.
The pain shooting up my toes is entirely eclipsed by a sudden, massive spike of adrenaline. The echo of the impact fades, leaving a terrifying, absolute silence in its wake.
I stand completely motionless. I grip my cotton pajamas tightly against my chest, holding my breath. My eyes are locked onto the open doorway of the closet. I wait for the heavy, intimidating sound of his footsteps. I wait for him to storm into the narrow space, his icy blue eyes blazing with fury, demanding an explanation for the property damage.
The seconds stretch into an agonizing eternity. I do not dare to move a single muscle.