Chapter 186 - 185 Mr. Wolfe Is In A Bad Mood 2

( EMILY )

I pull the silk mask off my eyes. The bright morning light filters through the sheer curtains, stinging my retinas. I blink rapidly, removing the foam earplugs and tossing them onto the nightstand.

The left side of the bed is completely pristine. He left hours ago.

I throw off the duvet and head into the bathroom to wash my face. Today requires absolute focus. I look at my reflection in the mirror, splashing cold water over my cheeks to wake myself up. The design proposal for the bubble tea shop is ready. Zoe, Jessie, and Fiona are waiting for me at the storefront. We have to finalize the interior blueprints before the contractors arrive.

I change into a pair of tailored beige slacks and a crisp white blouse. I grab my purse and step out into the quiet hallway of the Wolfe Estate.

I usually head straight to the underground bunker for target practice with Leo. Today, the shooting range has to wait. I check my wristwatch. It is exactly nine-fifteen in the morning.

Navigating this massive house requires a tactical understanding of enemy movements. The Wolfe family members treat me like a contagious disease. They look at me with undisguised contempt, whispering in the corners and making my life as uncomfortable as possible. I refuse to give them the satisfaction of a confrontation.

I spent the last three days mapping their morning routines. Edward and Arthur Sr. leave for their respective corporate offices at eight o’clock sharp. Beatrice Wolfe takes her morning tea in the solarium until ten. Celia Wolfe, the formidable matriarch, eats her breakfast in the formal dining room at eight-thirty, finishing precisely at nine. By nine-fifteen, the ground floor should be entirely deserted.

I walk down the grand sweeping staircase. My low heels make a soft, rhythmic tapping sound against the marble steps. The house smells of lemon polish and fresh lilies.

I reach the bottom of the stairs and turn toward the main foyer, aiming for the front doors.

"Emily."

The sharp, authoritative voice stops me dead in my tracks.

I turn my head. The formal living room sits adjacent to the foyer. It is a massive space, decorated with antique velvet furniture and priceless oil paintings. Celia Wolfe sits in a high-backed wing chair near the unlit fireplace. She holds a porcelain teacup, her silver hair pulled back into a severe, flawless twist. She did not go upstairs. She stayed right here, positioned perfectly to intercept anyone heading for the exit.

She was waiting for me.

I square my shoulders, adopting a mask of polite, respectful neutrality. I walk slowly into the living room, stopping a few feet away from her chair.

"Good morning, Madam," I say smoothly.

Celia sets the porcelain cup down on the matching saucer. The china clicks sharply in the quiet room. She looks me up and down, her dark eyes evaluating my simple outfit with clear, unmistakable disdain.

"Sit down," she orders, gesturing to the velvet sofa opposite her chair.

I do not want to sit. I want to walk out the front door, meet my partners, and build my business. But defying the matriarch of the Wolfe family in her own living room is a tactical error I cannot afford. I take a seat on the very edge of the velvet cushion, keeping my spine perfectly straight.

"You have been avoiding the family," Celia states. It is not a question. It is an accusation.

"I have been focusing on my health and my studies," I reply, keeping my voice even. "I start classes at Etland Medical University in a few weeks. I want to be prepared."

Celia waves a dismissive hand, her diamond rings catching the morning light. She does not care about my academic pursuits. She views me strictly as an incubator for her great-grandson.

"Your studies are irrelevant," Celia says coldly. "I stayed down here to ask you a direct question. What exactly is going on with my grandson?"

I blink, genuinely taken aback. I keep my expression carefully blank. "I don’t understand."

"Do not play stupid with me, girl," Celia snaps, leaning forward slightly. The severe lines around her mouth deepen. "Alistair is tearing the corporate headquarters apart. He fired two senior directors yesterday. He is operating with a level of ruthlessness that borders on erratic. The staff is terrified to look him in the eye. He looks completely exhausted, and his temper is notoriously dangerous right now. Why is he in such a terrible mood?"

I stare at the older woman, my mind racing through a dozen different calculations.

I know nothing about his corporate situation. We haven’t exchanged a single spoken word in over forty-eight hours. We share a mattress, but we occupy entirely different universes. He leaves before I wake up. He returns after I barricade my senses. The cold war is a silent, isolating vacuum.

"I am afraid I cannot answer that, Madam," I say honestly. "Alistair does not discuss Wolfe Empire business with me."

"I am not asking about corporate mergers," Celia retorts, her voice sharp and impatient. "I am asking about his home life. A man’s temperament is directly tied to the peace he finds in his own household. You share his bedroom. You are his wife. It is your primary duty to ensure he is rested and focused. Clearly, you are failing."

The sheer injustice of the accusation sparks a hot, stinging anger in my blood. I bite the inside of my cheek, using the physical pain to keep my face completely neutral.

He lies to me. He throws my handmade remedies into the garbage. He retreats into a shell of icy indifference to protect his towering ego, yet I am the one receiving the blame for his erratic behavior. He creates the hostile environment, and the matriarch expects me to fix it.

"Alistair is a very busy man," I reply, carefully choosing my words to avoid a direct confrontation. "Perhaps the pressure of his projects is simply catching up with him."

"Alistair has managed pressure since he was a teenager," Celia counters immediately. "This current volatility is new. It started exactly when you moved into that suite. If you are causing unnecessary friction in my grandson’s life, I will not tolerate it."

I look at her, maintaining steady eye contact. I will not cower, and I will not apologize for a situation I did not create.

"I assure you, Madam," I say, my voice dropping into a quiet, firm register. "I am not creating any friction. We are simply navigating a very busy period."

Celia stares at me, her dark eyes searching my face for a crack in my composure. She finds nothing. I survived Thomas and Lydia Vance. A wealthy old woman sitting in a velvet chair does not intimidate me.

"See that you continue to stay out of his way," Celia warns, picking her teacup back up. "You are dismissed."

I stand up, offering a brief, polite nod. I turn my back on the matriarch and walk briskly out of the formal living room.

The oak front doors of the estate open easily under my hand. The intense, humid heat of Asuir City washes over me, a welcome relief from the freezing, toxic atmosphere inside the house. Leo stands beside the armored black sedan parked in the circular driveway. He opens the rear door, his posture rigidly professional.

"To the storefront, Madam?" Leo asks.

"Yes, Leo," I say, sliding onto the cool leather seat. "Get me out of here."