Chapter 187 - 186 A Daunting Task

( CELIA )

The fine porcelain teacup hits the matching saucer with a sharp, echoing clack. The sound rings out across the vast, immaculate expanse of the formal living room. I rest my hands on the polished silver head of my walking cane, studying the young woman sitting on the edge of the velvet sofa opposite my chair.

Emily Vance holds her spine perfectly straight. Her hands rest neatly in her lap. It is a practiced, flawless posture, designed to project absolute calm. But I have survived eighty years in the Wolfe family. I do not read posture; I read the tension hiding just beneath the surface.

The girl is hiding something.

"You claim you are not creating friction," I say, keeping my voice low and sharp. "Yet my grandson is tearing apart his executive board. He has not slept. He is a walking disaster at the corporate headquarters."

Emily blinks, her dark eyes maintaining a careful, frustrating neutrality.

I lean forward, putting my weight on the cane. "You are his wife. You share a bedroom with him every single night. Explain to me how a woman sharing a man’s bed is completely ignorant of the dark cloud hanging over his head."

Emily shifts her weight slightly on the velvet cushion, a microscopic break in her armor. "Alistair does not bring his work home with him, Madam."

"Do not deceive me, girl," I snap, my patience evaporating into the heavily air-conditioned room. "I know the difference between a man stressed by corporate acquisitions and a man carrying a personal grudge. You two had an argument. You are sleeping in the same room, yet you might as well be on different continents."

Emily’s throat bobs as she swallows, but she refuses to break eye contact. She is stubborn. I will give her that.

"I expect harmony in this household," I continue, tapping the rubber tip of my cane against the marble floor for emphasis. "Alistair carries the weight of the entire Wolfe Empire on his shoulders. He does not need a sulking child waiting for him at home. You will find out exactly what is causing his foul mood. You have two days to uncover the root of this issue and report back to me."

( EMILY )

The velvet cushion beneath me suddenly feels incredibly uncomfortable. I grip the leather strap of my purse, digging my nails into the smooth material to keep my face completely blank.

Two days to investigate the CEO of the Wolfe Empire.

My mind races through a dozen chaotic possibilities. I have absolutely no access to his corporate files. I do not know the executives he fired or the acquisitions he is managing. If Celia wants me to spy on his daily operations, Alistair will catch me instantly. He is paranoid and fiercely protective of his business. If I start asking his assistants questions, he will assume I am attempting to steal corporate secrets. He will think I am leveraging my position to extract financial gain. The fragile, broken dynamic between us will completely shatter.

Despite his recent lies, a heavy knot of genuine concern tightens in my chest. Alistair Wolfe dragged me out of the absolute darkest moment of my life. He wrapped his warm jacket around my shivering shoulders and locked my abusive family in a storage room. He is a cold, calculated man, but he is also my benefactor. He changed my fate completely. I care about his well-being, even if I refuse to tolerate his deception.

If his foul mood is not related to his laboratory, it must be personal. It must be about her. The mysterious woman he loves. The one he warned me about when he explicitly told me not to develop feelings for him. Maybe they had a falling out. Maybe she rejected him.

"Madam," I say carefully, keeping my tone respectful but firm. "Investigating his private matters or his corporate dealings is overstepping my boundaries. If I start probing into his schedule, he will assume I have ulterior motives. It will only worsen the situation."

Celia stares at me, her brow furrowing in deep, irritated confusion.

A quiet cough interrupts the tense silence.

Greyson, the head butler of the Wolfe household, steps out from the shadows near the grand archway. He wears his immaculate black suit, his silver hair neatly combed. He approaches the sitting area with slow, measured steps, bowing slightly toward Celia before turning his attention to me.

"Forgive the intrusion, Miss Vance," Greyson says smoothly. His voice is a polite, diplomatic murmur. "I believe you are misunderstanding the Madam’s directive."

I look up at the butler. "Misunderstanding?"

"The Madam is not asking you to conduct a corporate espionage operation," Greyson clarifies, keeping his hands clasped behind his back. "She does not expect you to interrogate his assistants or review his daily itinerary."

"Then what exactly am I supposed to investigate?" I ask.

Greyson clears his throat. A faint, almost imperceptible flush of pink touches the tips of his ears. "The Madam means you should utilize your position as his wife. In the privacy of your suite. Late in the evening."

I stare at him, completely lost.

"She means," Greyson continues, lowering his voice to a discreet whisper, "you should prepare a pleasant atmosphere. Act coy. Speak to him softly when he is relaxed in bed. A man is much more likely to share his burdens with a loving, affectionate wife during a moment of intimacy."

The blood drains completely out of my face.

Act coy.

The sheer horror of the suggestion paralyzes my vocal cords. Celia Wolfe expects me to put on a silk nightgown, crawl across the massive mattress, and attempt to seduce the emotional truth out of a man made of solid ice. She wants me to bat my eyelashes and coax secrets from a man who just lied to my face about a bottle of essential oil.

We do not share a bed. We occupy extreme opposite edges of a mattress, barricaded by darkness and foam earplugs. We are currently engaged in a brutal, silent cold war. If I suddenly approach him, batting my eyelashes and speaking in a soft, coaxing whisper, Alistair will not open up to me. He will probably think I have suffered a severe traumatic brain injury.

"I see," I manage to say. My voice sounds brittle and hollow.

"Good," Celia snaps, clearly annoyed by the necessary translation. She grips the handles of her cane and stands up. Her joints pop slightly in the quiet room, but her posture remains imposing and rigid. "Since we have clarified the method, we can expedite the timeline. Two days is too long to let this dark cloud hang over my house. You have one day."

"One day?" I repeat, panic finally cracking my polite facade.

"Tonight," Celia confirms. She looks down her nose at me, her dark eyes flashing with absolute authority. "You will get to the bottom of this tonight, Emily. Do not disappoint me."

She turns on her heel and walks out of the formal living room, her cane tapping a steady, rhythmic retreat against the marble floor. Greyson offers me a sympathetic, apologetic bow before following his employer out of the room.

I sit alone on the velvet sofa. The scent of lemon polish and fresh lilies suddenly feels suffocating.

I press my palms against my eyes, taking a long, slow breath. I have to break the cold war. I have to cross the bedroom, drop my defensive walls, and initiate a conversation with a man who actively avoids my presence. It is a completely daunting, impossible task.

I stand up, grabbing my purse. I need to leave this house before the walls close in on me entirely.

( LEO )

The midday sun beats down on the black roof of the armored sedan. The heat radiating from the asphalt is intense, baking the circular driveway of the Wolfe Estate. I stand near the rear passenger door, keeping my posture relaxed but my eyes actively scanning the perimeter.

The heavy oak front doors swing open.

The Madam walks out. Her steps are quick, lacking their usual measured grace. She grips the leather strap of her purse tightly, her knuckles showing white. She looks incredibly stressed, her eyebrows drawn together in a tight, worried line.

I pull the rear door open. "To the storefront, Madam?"

She stops a few feet away from the car. She looks at me, her dark eyes searching my face for answers.

"Leo," she says, keeping her voice low. "I need you to be completely honest with me."

I square my shoulders. "Always, Madam."

"Is Alistair in a bad mood?"

I maintain a perfectly blank expression. Internally, I process the massive understatement of her question. Alistair Wolfe is not simply in a bad mood. The CEO is operating at a level of hostility that has the entire corporate headquarters terrified to ride the elevators with him. He is a walking disaster area, snapping at executives and pushing the laboratory engineers to the brink of physical collapse.

However, my orders are absolute. I provide security. I do not provide marital counseling, and I do not leak details regarding the CEO’s mental state.

"Mr. Wolfe manages an immense amount of pressure, Madam," I reply, choosing my words with careful, deliberate neutrality. "I only oversee the physical security protocols. I am not privy to his personal disposition or his corporate frustrations."

The Madam narrows her eyes, studying my face. She knows I am deflecting, but she also respects my professional boundaries. She sighs, a short, frustrated sound, and slides into the back seat of the sedan.

I close the door, securing the perimeter before sliding into the driver’s seat. I start the engine, the powerful motor roaring to life. I steer the heavy vehicle down the gravel driveway, heading toward the commercial district.

I glance at the rearview mirror. The Madam is staring out the tinted window, chewing her lower lip. She is formulating a strategy. I recognize the calculation in her eyes. She is facing a complex problem, and she is actively searching for a tactical advantage.

( EMILY )

The air conditioning in the back of the sedan is a welcome relief from the brutal heat outside, but it does nothing to cool the racing panic in my head.

Leo refused to talk. That confirms my worst suspicions. If Leo is actively protecting Alistair’s privacy, it means the bad mood is not a standard corporate issue. A delayed shipment of lithium or a failed merger does not require this level of secrecy.

It has to be personal. It has to be relationship trouble.

He is agonizing over another woman while I am sharing his bedroom. The thought sends a sharp, unpleasant twist through my stomach. I push the feeling away immediately. I do not have the luxury of feeling jealous over a contract husband. I have a mission. I have to report back to Celia Wolfe by tomorrow morning, and I refuse to look like a failure in front of that terrifying old woman.

If I try to act coy and seduce the truth out of Alistair tonight without any prior intelligence, I will fail miserably. He will see right through the act. I need a baseline understanding of what is actually bothering him. I need leverage.

I pull my mobile phone from my purse.

Who knows Alistair’s secrets? Who operates on the same level, navigating the same high-stakes, dangerous world?

Warren Sinclair.

Warren is the billionaire boss of the Azure Syndicate. He is Alistair’s personal friend. They share information, resources, and drinks. Warren loves to talk. He loves to play games, and he clearly enjoys inserting himself into my life just to see how I will react.

I unlock the screen and open my contacts list. I scroll down until I find the number Warren provided me after the incident at Bordeaux 101.

Asking a syndicate boss for marital advice is an incredibly dangerous, absurd move. Warren will undoubtedly mock me. He will leverage the conversation for his own amusement. But I have absolutely no other options. I am walking into a minefield tonight, and I need a map.

I tap the green call icon and press the phone to my ear. The line rings twice before connecting.

"Emily," Warren says, his smooth, cultured voice filling the speaker. "I was wondering when you would finally decide to use this number. To what do I owe the pleasure?"

I take a deep breath, steeling my nerves. "I need information, Warren. And I need you to keep this conversation entirely between us."

A low, rich chuckle rumbles through the phone. "You have my absolute, undivided attention."

"It’s about Alistair," I say, keeping my voice steady. "I need to know exactly what is going on with him. Something personal."

The line goes quiet for a brief moment. When Warren speaks again, the amusement is gone, replaced by a sharp, calculating curiosity.

"My dear," Warren murmurs. "You are asking me to betray the confidence of the most dangerous man in Asuir City. That kind of information comes with a very steep price."

I lean my head against the cool glass of the car window. "Name your price, Warren. I have to know."