Chapter 196 - 195 Emily’s Misconception

EMILY VANCE POV

A perfectly constructed theory acts like a suit of armor against the cold.

I sit at the edge of the sprawling mattress inside the master suite of the Wolfe Estate. The heavy silk curtains block out the bright morning sun, leaving the room submerged in thick, quiet shadows. I run a wooden comb through my damp hair. The repetitive motion grounds me. The sharp, bitter tension that choked this room for the past three days is completely gone.

I finally understand the rules of the game.

I am a decoy. I am a highly visible, legally bound human shield designed to protect a phantom. Alistair Wolfe loves Kiki, the mysterious woman who pulled his paralyzed body through the freezing mud of the Blackwood Gorge. He carries her memory like a sacred artifact. He cannot bring an ordinary civilian into the vicious, aristocratic snake pit of the Wolfe family. His grandmother, Celia, would destroy a woman without a pristine pedigree.

So, he married me. He secured his corporate heir and erected a flawless defensive perimeter. Naya Zone screams at me on the sidewalk. Beatrice Wolfe plots my downfall in the estate corridors. I absorb the shrapnel, and Kiki remains entirely safe in the dark.

The realization brings me an immense, profound sense of peace.

I no longer have to dissect his icy stares. I do not have to wonder why he throws my handmade essential oils into the garbage. He avoids my care because he views any emotional proximity as a direct betrayal of his loyalty to Kiki. His explosive temper and his current, destructive mood at the corporate headquarters stem entirely from his inability to locate the woman he truly loves.

I set the comb down on the polished mahogany nightstand.

The cold war we are currently waging is irrelevant. I will play the part of the obedient, targeted wife. I will provide the heir he requires, and in exchange, I will utilize his vast resources to build Sterling Pharmaceuticals into a global empire. I will walk through the gates of Etland Medical University with my head held high.

I slide under the heavy white duvet, pulling the fabric up to my collarbone. I do not need foam earplugs or a silk eye mask today. I close my eyes, secure in the absolute clarity of my position, and let the quiet isolation of the room lull me to sleep.

(WARREN )

Pride is a fatal flaw in highly intelligent men.

I sit in the secluded private dining suite at Bordeaux 101, swirling a measure of twenty-year-old single malt scotch in a heavy crystal tumbler. The amber liquid coats the glass, catching the warm light of the overhead chandelier.

I need to summon the most dangerous corporate predator in Asuir City to this room. If I call Alistair Wolfe and ask him to discuss his emotional state, he will hang up the phone. If I tell him he looks like a man on the verge of a catastrophic mental breakdown, he will probably order a hostile takeover of my legitimate front companies just to spite me.

He requires a plausible excuse to leave his corporate bunker. He needs a reason that caters to his towering superiority complex.

I pick up my encrypted mobile phone and dial his private line.

The phone rings four times. He is screening the call. I wait patiently until the line finally connects.

"Make it quick, Warren," Alistair says. His voice sounds like crushed gravel grinding against steel. "I am reviewing the supply chain logistics for the South American refineries."

"You need to step away from the spreadsheets," I reply smoothly, leaning back into the plush leather armchair. "I require your company at Bordeaux 101 immediately. I am currently staring at a bottle of Macallan, and I refuse to drink it alone."

"I am working," Alistair states. The refusal is flat and absolute.

"I am experiencing a severe bout of melancholy, Alistair," I continue, injecting a heavy dose of theatrical misery into my tone. "I made the fatal error of rewatching Titanic in my private screening room this afternoon. It completely ruined my disposition. Jack Dawson freezing in the Atlantic Ocean while Rose hogs the floating door is a cinematic tragedy I simply cannot process alone."

A long, heavy silence falls over the line.

I wait. I know exactly how his brain works. The sheer absurdity of a ruthless syndicate boss seeking comfort over a ninety-year-old romance movie will short-circuit his corporate focus. He will want to mock me. He will want to sit across from me and tear apart my ridiculous excuse.

"You are a pathetic creature, Warren," Alistair mutters finally. A harsh, ragged exhale filters through the speaker. "Have the valet clear the rear entrance. I will be there in twenty minutes."

The line goes dead. I smile, setting the phone down on the pristine white tablecloth. The bait worked perfectly.

Exactly twenty-two minutes later, the heavy oak door of the private suite opens.

The temperature in the room drops a noticeable ten degrees. Alistair steps across the threshold. The dark, suffocating aura rolling off his shoulders is a physical weight, pressing the oxygen out of the space.

He looks terrible.

His expensive charcoal suit hangs awkwardly on his frame. The top two buttons of his crisp white dress shirt are undone. The skin beneath his dark eyes bears a heavy, bruised purple tint. He carries the rigid, brittle tension of a man running entirely on adrenaline and raw spite.

"You look like a corpse that decided to attend a board meeting," I note quietly, pushing a second crystal tumbler across the polished mahogany table.

Alistair ignores the insult. He drops into the heavy leather chair across from me, his long legs stretching out beneath the table. He picks up the glass of scotch, downing half the amber liquid in a single, punishing swallow. He sets the glass down hard, resting his forearms on the table.

"The lithium refinement plant acquisitions are stalling," Alistair says. His voice is tight, clipped, and devoid of any natural rhythm. "The legal department is incompetent. The engineering team at the laboratory failed another thermal load test today. I am entirely exhausted by the sheer volume of mediocrity surrounding me."

I pick up the crystal decanter, refilling his glass. He is lying through his teeth.

Alistair handles multi-billion-dollar corporate failures with cold, calculated precision. A stalled acquisition does not hollow out his cheekbones. A failed laboratory test does not inject this level of volatile, predatory menace into his posture.

"Work is a convenient scapegoat," I say, leaning forward and resting my chin on my steepled fingers. "Let us skip the corporate briefings. Any updates on the phantom in the woods? Did your private investigators uncover a fresh lead on Kiki?"

Alistair goes completely still.

His fingers tighten around the heavy crystal tumbler. His knuckles turn stark white. He stares at the dark liquid, his jaw locking into a rigid, unyielding line.

"No," Alistair replies softly. The harsh edge vanishes from his voice, replaced by a hollow, grating exhaustion. "The trail is completely dead. We scoured the satellite imagery of the Blackwood Gorge again last week. We cross-referenced the medical records of every female civilian within a fifty-mile radius of the crash site. Nothing. She simply vanished into the fog."

I study his face. The disappointment is genuine, but it lacks the fresh, bleeding sting of a recent revelation. He has known the trail was dead for months.

I mentally cross the ghost off my list of suspects. Kiki is not the source of this current, catastrophic meltdown. The phantom savior is a lingering ache, but she is not the explosive charge currently ripping his nervous system apart.

The answer sits inside the master bedroom of the Wolfe Estate. The cold war Emily described to me earlier today is actively starving his brain of dopamine and rest. He is trapped in a silent, suffocating standoff with his own wife, and his pride absolutely refuses to let him wave a white flag.

He requires a chemical intervention to lower his defenses.

"Drink," I order gently, pushing the decanter closer to his hand. "If your investigators hit a dead end, you need to numb the frustration. We have the entire night, and this bottle is exceptionally smooth."

( ALISTAIR )

The scotch burns a slow, agonizing trail down the back of my throat.

The dark red velvet walls of the private suite feel incredibly claustrophobic. I stare at the amber liquid pooling in the bottom of my glass. I am drowning in a sea of raw, unadulterated fatigue. I have not slept a single minute in three days. Every time I close my eyes, I see a pair of black leather combat gloves resting perfectly in the center of a velvet sofa. I see Emily turning her back to me, barricading her senses with foam earplugs and silk masks.

The sheer weight of her silent rejection crushes the oxygen out of my lungs. I lied to her face to protect my authority, and she dismantled my entire facade without speaking a single word.

Warren pours another generous measure of liquor into my tumbler.

"You need to pace yourself," I mutter, rubbing the throbbing ache building behind my temples. "I do not have the time or the patience to drag an intoxicated syndicate boss out of his own restaurant."

Warren chuckles, swirling his own drink. He looks entirely too comfortable, observing me with those sharp, analytical eyes. He is plotting something. He lured me here with a ridiculous cinematic excuse, and now he is actively pushing top-shelf alcohol into my system.

"I am perfectly sober, Alistair," Warren says smoothly. He leans back into his heavy leather chair, crossing one ankle over his knee. "I am simply trying to navigate the complex emotional landscape of a classic tragedy. You never answered my initial inquiry on the phone."

I let out a harsh, rasping sigh. "I am not discussing a ninety-year-old romance movie with you, Warren. It is beneath my dignity."

"Humor me," Warren insists, his tone shifting into a deceptive, quiet curiosity. "Put yourself in the scenario. The luxury liner hits the iceberg. The ship goes down in the middle of the freezing Atlantic Ocean. You find a piece of floating wooden debris. It can only support the weight of one person."

Warren leans forward, resting his forearms on the mahogany table. He locks his dark eyes directly onto mine.

"You are Jack," Warren says, articulating every syllable with deliberate precision. "The woman you are with is Rose. At the absolute moment of life and death, with the freezing water dragging you under, do you give up your chance of survival for her?"

I stare at the syndicate boss. The alcohol currently swimming through my bloodstream blurs the edges of my rigid control.

The freezing water.

My mind violently snaps backward, dragging me out of the luxurious restaurant and throwing me onto the jagged, unforgiving terrain of the Blackridge Mountains. I feel the freezing mud seeping through my torn clothes. I feel the agonizing, paralyzing fire of the M-209 neurotoxin shutting down my nervous system. I remember the total, suffocating darkness.

I remember the warmth of a stranger’s body pressing against my freezing skin. I remember the phantom silhouette keeping me alive when the entire world went black.

I blink, pulling myself back to the present. The mahogany table comes back into focus.

Would I give up my life for a woman?

I look at the crystal glass in my hand. I think of the Nightblade pistol locked inside the bedside drawer. I think of the fierce, unyielding girl currently sleeping in my bed, the woman who slapped a politician’s daughter on the sidewalk to protect my name.

I process the hypothetical scenario, the weight of the question settling heavy and cold in the center of my chest.