They certainly couldn't suggest that Young Master Chen had experienced a sudden attack of conscience, or that he'd been possessed by benevolent spirits. Either explanation would sound absurd.
"Useless trash." Elena's words emerged soft and dismissive, each syllable dropping like ice water poured over their heads. All three women's faces drained to chalky white, fear radiating from them in palpable waves.
Just then, the red-haired woman's eyes lit up with sudden inspiration. She slapped her thigh with theatrical emphasis. "Oh! Boss, wait—before he left, I think he... he did say something specific!"
"He said..." She paused for dramatic effect, working to inject maximum credibility into her recollection. "He said he missed you! That's what he said—he missed you!"
The woman's voice gained confidence as she continued building the narrative. "He said he needed to go back home to be with his wife!"
The other two women seized this lifeline with desperate eagerness, nodding so vigorously their heads might detach. "Yes, yes, exactly! He kept saying he missed his wife! He looked genuinely anxious about getting back to you!"
"Missed me?" Elena finally lifted her gaze, those dark, fathomless eyes settling on the red-haired woman's face with predatory focus. The corner of her mouth curved upward in the faintest suggestion of a smile—one loaded with pure, cutting mockery. "Heh."
That single soft laugh echoed through the quiet private room, transforming the atmosphere and making all three women visibly more unsettled, their discomfort intensifying.
But Elena's thoughts had already drifted elsewhere, pulled back three months into the past.
Three months ago, her grandfather had fallen critically, perhaps terminally ill. The question of what would happen to the Jiang family's multi-billion-yuan asset portfolio had been thrust onto the table with brutal urgency.
Her older sister, Victoria Nightshade, suffered from severe mental illness—her condition unstable, her episodes unpredictable. Legal guardianship had naturally defaulted to Elena, the younger sister. Which meant, by extension, that control over that immense fortune would fall into Elena's hands.
However, the family circle teemed with predators. Her paternal uncle's branch particularly—ruthless, ambitious, already circling like sharks scenting blood in the water. Her maternal uncle, though more distantly related by blood, was equally untrustworthy, equally dangerous.
Elena had been raised in an environment saturated with schemes and calculated manipulation. She'd learned early to navigate treacherous social terrain with extreme caution, never taking a single step without first assessing all potential consequences.
Once her grandfather finally passed—and that moment was approaching with inexorable certainty—she and Victoria would become prime targets. The vultures would descend. They'd be torn apart, devoured completely, nothing but picked-clean bones remaining.
She needed a shield. A distraction. A "husband" capable of drawing hostile fire away from her actual vulnerabilities, someone who could serve as a convenient scapegoat when circumstances required it.
Her criteria for selecting this disposable partner had been extremely specific, coldly calculated, and deliberately twisted:
He needed to have a chaotic private life—demonstrable moral weakness. He should appear superficially naive, easily fooled. Greedy for money, driven by base desires. But critically, he absolutely could not genuinely care for disabled people. Those character flaws would make him easy to control and, when the time came, easy to "dispose of" without guilt or complications.
If he proved lucky enough to survive until the immediate danger passed and the family situation stabilized, Elena wouldn't object to paying him off generously and sending him away to disappear into whatever life he wanted.
Marcus Chen had been virtually perfect—meeting every single criterion on her checklist:
Outstanding physical appearance sufficient to maintain social credibility and deflect certain suspicions. Transparently vain and status-obsessed (demonstrated by his fake "rich heir" persona and designer knockoffs). Simple-minded enough to swallow her carefully orchestrated "damsel in distress" manipulation without questioning the convenient narrative. And most importantly, with a documented romantic history consisting exclusively of able-bodied, conventionally attractive women—clear evidence he harbored no genuine attraction to someone with disabilities.
Marcus had believed himself to be the predator, successfully conning a naive wealthy girl. He'd had no idea he was actually the moth flying directly into a spider's carefully constructed web.
Everything had proceeded exactly according to her timeline: the "accidental" first meeting, the romantic lake excursion, expensive restaurant dates designed to feed his ego, the formal engagement announcement. Progress had been smooth, satisfactory, perfectly controlled.
She'd only needed to maintain the charade long enough for her grandfather to find peace, to believe she was protected and settled. Then she could systematically begin eliminating actual threats within the family power structure.
But last night, Marcus had suddenly, inexplicably lost control. He'd not only struck her—leaving visible evidence of violence on her face—but had also delivered a barrage of deliberately humiliating verbal abuse. And that disturbingly vivid nightmare she'd experienced, so real it had felt like prophecy... All of it had generated unprecedented feelings of genuine vulnerability and crisis, emotions she thought she'd successfully excised from her psychological architecture.
Yet then he'd left. And then he'd returned. And his behavior this morning had been so jarringly inconsistent with last night's brutality.
The only rational explanation seemed to be that he'd somehow seen through her manipulation. That he'd figured out the game she was playing.
Elena immediately dismissed that theory. Impossible. Given Marcus Chen's demonstrable intelligence level—or rather, his profound lack thereof—there was absolutely no way he could have unraveled her careful planning.
Which meant this nonsense about "missing his wife" was equally absurd, transparent lies from frightened subordinates trying to placate her.
This situation clearly wouldn't resolve itself quickly. She needed more information, more time to analyze the variables.
Elena composed her features, allowing icy calm to resettle across her expression like frost forming on glass.
She would wait. Observe. Adapt. Spiders, after all, possessed infinite patience when it came to waiting for prey to exhaust themselves through futile struggling.
Following the enthusiastically positive recommendations displayed on his phone, Marcus found himself standing outside a tattoo parlor with aggressively avant-garde decor and a neon sign above the entrance that practically screamed "cutting-edge hipster establishment."
The shop's online page prominently featured five-star ratings and review after glowing review: "Amazing technique, completely painless!" "The artist's touch is so gentle, felt like a mosquito bite!" "Best removal experience ever!" The testimonials had provided significant reassurance.
But now, actually present at the physical location, Marcus was developing serious doubts.
He observed the steady stream of customers entering and exiting—men and women sporting elaborate tattoos in various styles, from full sleeves to intricate back pieces.
The strange part: these people entered the establishment chatting animatedly, laughing, faces bright with anticipation.
But when they emerged? Every single one of them looked like they'd survived some medieval torture session—grimacing, faces contorted in obvious pain, some with actual tears tracking through their makeup. They supported each other's weight, limping toward the exit while muttering things like "Never again" and "Why did I think this was a good idea?"
"Is this place... actually legitimate?" Marcus's forward momentum faltered. Those "painless" reviews suddenly seemed extremely suspicious, possibly fraudulent.
Just as he was seriously considering finding an alternative location, an arm wrapped around his shoulders from behind with enthusiastic familiarity. A voice—recognizable but edged with playful mockery—spoke directly into his ear: "Marcus Chen! Finally tracked you down! Why'd you bolt so fast last night, man? The party was just getting started!"
Marcus turned to find a young man wearing an outfit that screamed expensive streetwear—designer Balenciaga in aggressive black, logo placement so prominent it bordered on parody. The guy had his temples shaved into sharp, clean lines, and his overall aesthetic radiated carefully cultivated rebelliousness. His face was handsome in a pretty-boy way, and his demeanor suggested someone perpetually operating at high energy.
This must be Devon Zhang—the "close friend" from the Original Owner's memories, his primary partner in various debauchery and poor decision-making.
Upon hearing that Marcus intended to get his tattoo removed, Devon had reacted with more excitement than the person actually undergoing the procedure. He'd insisted on coming along to "witness this historic moment," even threatening to record the entire process on his phone and post it to their group chat "so everyone can admire Young Master Chen's heroic sacrifice in the name of love."
Marcus had issued a stern warning that recording would result in immediate friendship termination. Devon had reluctantly backed down.
According to fragmentary memories from the original novel, Devon Zhang was a relatively minor character who disappeared from the narrative entirely after the Original Owner's death. But he seemed fundamentally good-natured despite his lifestyle choices—apparently he'd even advised the Original against treating Elena too harshly at some point.
Overall assessment: probably safe to interact with, possibly even useful as an ally. So Marcus hadn't firmly refused the company.
The two men entered the tattoo parlor together, arms slung across each other's shoulders in performative brotherhood. The interior aesthetic leaned heavily into industrial minimalism—harsh black, white, and gray color palette, deliberately dim lighting. The walls displayed photographs of previous work: elaborate designs ranging from ferocious predatory animals to mysterious symbolic text, covering every imaginable style and subject matter.
The air carried thick scents: medical-grade disinfectant mixing with tattoo ink and the metallic tang of specialized equipment. The lighting had been deliberately arranged to create an atmosphere of stark, clinical intensity.
A heavily tattooed artist—both arms completely sleeved in elaborate designs—guided Marcus to what resembled a massage table upholstered in black leather. Marcus positioned himself face-down, exposing his entire back and the scorpion tattoo sprawling across it.
Devon, meanwhile, dragged a chair over and positioned himself nearby, adopting the concerned posture of someone maintaining vigil beside a seriously ill friend's hospital bed.
"Dude, I gotta say—that scorpion is genuinely badass. Super intimidating, perfectly executed. Why would you possibly want to remove it?" Devon tilted his head, examining the lifelike artwork with what looked like genuine appreciation.
Marcus turned his face to the side, chin resting against the padded surface, and mumbled his prepared explanation: "Elena doesn't like it. She says it frightens her. She's uncomfortable being physically close to me because of it."
He'd deliberately framed the reasoning around Elena's preferences—a perfectly plausible justification that aligned with his supposed romantic devotion.
Devon's eyes went comically wide, as though Marcus had just announced he'd discovered alien life. He leaned in closer, dropping his voice to a stage whisper loaded with teasing insinuation:
"Whoa, whoa, whoa! Marcus Chen, are you telling me you've actually caught real feelings? You're genuinely falling for the Nightshade girl? Weren't you the one who told me this was purely transactional? A business arrangement, strategic alliance, strong family merging with strong family? You specifically said you had zero emotional attachment to 'that little cripple' and we'd all still be running wild together after the wedding was done. But last night you didn't even finish your drinks before sprinting home like your ass was on fire. Talk about abandoning your bros for a woman!"