Chapter 208 - 207 The Title Of Husband 2
ALISTAIR
She is actively running from the topic. The rigid set of her shoulders and the sharp, defensive tone of her voice communicate her boundaries perfectly. She refuses to let me see her weakness. I accept the deflection, prioritizing the newly established peace over my curiosity regarding her nightmares.
"I required your presence because my grandmother requested a meeting," I explain, standing up from my chair. "She is currently waiting for us in the main formal dining room."
Emily stands up, smoothing the fabric of her tailored black skirt. A brief flash of annoyance crosses her features. She despises Celia Wolfe, and the sentiment is entirely mutual. The matriarch views my contract wife as a temporary, unpleasant necessity.
"Lead the way," Emily says, grabbing her leather purse from the adjacent chair.
We walk out of the private breakfast atrium, stepping into the wide, sweeping corridor of the East Wing. The estate is a labyrinth of marble floors, antique oil paintings, and heavy velvet drapery. We navigate the hallways in silence, moving toward the grand, cavernous space of the formal dining hall located at the center of the ground floor.
I prepare my mental defenses. Warren Sinclair provided the perfect alibi last night. The corporate cover story is flawless, and it neatly explains my explosive temper over the past week.
We approach the towering double doors of the dining room. Two members of the household security staff stand at attention, pulling the heavy wood open as we draw near.
We step into the massive room.
Celia Wolfe sits at the far end of an impossibly long dining table. She wears a severe, high-collared black dress. Her silver hair is pulled back into an immaculate, punishing twist. She holds a delicate porcelain teacup, her posture radiating absolute, tyrannical authority.
"Alistair," Celia says sharply. Her dark eyes dart toward Emily for a fraction of a second, registering her presence with a look of pure, unfiltered disdain before returning to me. "You are late."
"Good morning, Grandmother," I reply smoothly, walking toward the head of the table.
"I demanded an explanation for your recent behavior," Celia continues, setting her teacup down with a sharp clack. "You have been tearing the corporate headquarters apart. You fired two senior directors. The staff is terrified of your temper. Your erratic disposition is becoming a massive liability to the public image of the Wolfe Empire. Explain yourself."
I stop a few feet away from her chair. I place my hands in the pockets of my navy suit trousers, projecting total, unbothered confidence.
"The Ultimate Power Laboratory is facing severe structural delays," I state, delivering the lie with practiced, surgical precision. "The engineering team failed three consecutive thermal load tests on the new synthetic battery casing. The acquisitions department completely botched the legal paperwork for the lithium refineries in South America. We are currently hemorrhaging capital due to basic incompetence. My mood is a direct reflection of those failures."
Celia stares at me, her sharp eyes searching my face for any sign of deception. She finds absolutely nothing. She understands the ruthless demands of the corporate machine, and she knows I do not tolerate failure from my subordinates.
"Incompetence is unacceptable," Celia agrees finally, her severe expression softening by a microscopic margin. "You must discipline the engineering team immediately. But you cannot allow professional stress to contaminate the harmony of this household."
"I have the situation under control," I assure her smoothly.
Celia nods, satisfied with the explanation. She gestures toward the empty chair to her right. "Sit down, Alistair. Eat your breakfast. We have other logistical matters to discuss regarding the upcoming charity gala."
EMILY
The performance is a masterpiece of corporate deception.
I stand a few steps behind Alistair, watching him lie directly to the face of the most terrifying woman in Asuir City. His voice does not waver. His posture remains completely relaxed. The story Warren fed me last night perfectly satisfies the matriarch’s demand for an explanation.
Greyson, the head butler of the Wolfe household, steps out from the shadows near the antique sideboard. He moves with silent, practiced grace. He walks to the chair on Celia’s right side, pulling the heavy mahogany frame outward to accommodate Alistair.
Alistair does not sit down.
He turns his head, looking directly at me. He raises his right hand and gestures clearly toward the empty chair Greyson is currently holding.
"Emily," Alistair commands, his voice echoing in the cavernous room. "Take a seat. You will join me for breakfast."
The air in the formal dining room completely freezes.
Celia Wolfe goes entirely rigid. Her hands grip the edge of the table. The delicate porcelain teacup rattles slightly against its saucer. The matriarch explicitly requested Alistair’s presence. She barely acknowledges my existence, treating me like a piece of unpleasant furniture. Alistair offering me the seat of honor directly beside the head of the family is a massive, deliberate insult to her authority.
I stare at him in absolute horror.
We just established a truce. We just navigated a highly complex emotional minefield, and now he is actively dragging me into a brutal crossfire with his grandmother. I do not want to sit at this table. I do not want to endure the toxic, suffocating venom Celia radiates.
"I apologize, Alistair," I say quickly, placing a hand against my forehead. I inject a slight, convincing tremor into my voice. "I am actually feeling quite dizzy this morning. The pregnancy is causing some severe nausea. I need to return to my room and rest."
It is a perfect, undeniable excuse. Nobody can argue with the medical symptoms of a high-risk pregnancy. I turn on my heel, entirely prepared to sprint out the double doors and escape the hostile environment.
I take one step toward the exit.
Alistair moves with terrifying speed. His hand shoots out, his long fingers wrapping completely around my wrist.
The grip is ironclad. It is not bruising, but it is an absolute, physical restraint. He stops my momentum completely.
I freeze, turning my head to look at him. His dark eyes burn with a dangerous, challenging intensity.
He steps closer, invading my personal space. The scent of his bergamot cologne washes over me. He lowers his head, bringing his mouth inches from my ear.
"Do not walk away from me," Alistair whispers. His voice is incredibly low, designed specifically so Celia cannot hear the words. "You will sit in that chair, and you will play the part of the devoted partner."
I glare at him, keeping my own voice to a harsh, furious whisper. "I am not participating in your family drama. Let me go."
"If you take one more step toward that door," Alistair warns, his tone dropping into a lethal, coercive register, "I will pull the prenuptial agreement from my safe. I will hand the contract directly to my grandmother. I will explain exactly how our marriage operates, and I will dissolve your financial protection immediately."
The threat hits me like a bucket of ice water.
He is weaponizing my independence. He knows I require his financial backing to build Sterling Pharmaceuticals and escape the Vance family permanently. He is actively blackmailing me to force a public display of unity.
"You wouldn’t dare," I hiss, my dark eyes flashing with pure rage.
"Test me," Alistair replies smoothly, completely unbothered by my anger.
He tightens his grip on my wrist slightly, pulling me back toward the dining table. He guides me directly to the chair Greyson is holding. I have absolutely no tactical choice. If he exposes the contract, my entire future collapses.
I sit down in the heavy mahogany chair. The velvet cushion feels like a bed of nails.
Alistair takes the seat immediately to my left. He sits incredibly close, his broad shoulder brushing against my arm. The physical proximity is overwhelming, flooding my senses with the memory of the previous night.
"Excellent," Alistair says loudly, his voice returning to its normal, commanding volume. He looks across the table at his furious grandmother. "Emily will be joining us."
Celia looks like she just swallowed a mouthful of shattered glass. Her lips thin into a severe, bloodless line. She glares at me, her dark eyes promising vicious, unending retribution for this insult.
I stare straight ahead, keeping my face completely blank.
Alistair reaches under the table. His large hand finds my knee. He rests his palm against my leg, his long fingers curling slightly in a gesture of absolute, undeniable possession. The sudden heat of his touch sends a violent, terrifying jolt of electricity straight up my spine.
He leans toward me again, his mouth hovering near my ear.
"Drop the formalities, Emily," Alistair whispers, the coercive edge remaining sharp in his tone. "I am tired of hearing you call me Sir or address me like a corporate colleague. We are presenting a united front."
I turn my head, my face inches from his. I can see the individual dark lashes framing his intense eyes.
"What exactly do you want me to call you?" I ask, my voice laced with bitter sarcasm.
"Say it," Alistair demands softly, his thumb tracing a small, agonizing circle against the fabric of my skirt. "Call me Husband."