Elena lowered her head, voice emerging flat and emotionless, utterly devoid of inflection: "It's fine. I can attempt to manage things myself."
"How can that possibly work?!" Sophia protested with obvious distress, her professional composure cracking. "Miss, you've never really done these tasks independently. What if you injure yourself—bump into something, bruise yourself, or find the process too physically difficult..."
"It's fine!" Marcus seized the conversational opening with barely contained enthusiasm, his voice carrying a note of excitement he couldn't quite suppress. He rubbed his fingers together unconsciously, the corners of his mouth threatening to split into an undignified grin. "Manager Sophia, please don't worry about anything. Just go attend to your family. I'll take complete care of Elena!"
This is literally a heaven-sent opportunity!
Once Sophia departed, wouldn't the critically important task of attending to Elena Nightshade's daily needs fall entirely to him by default?
Dressing assistance. Bathing help. These activities would inevitably involve extensive physical contact! Wouldn't his "Positive Value" skyrocket like a NASA rocket launching toward the stratosphere?
He'd be another massive step closer to that hundred-million-yuan goal! Internal joy bubbled through him like champagne.
He immediately dropped into a crouch, positioning himself so his gaze aligned perfectly with Elena's eye level as she sat in the wheelchair. First, he shot Sophia a look meant to communicate absolute trustworthiness and competence:
"Manager Sophia, please return home and handle your family obligations. Attend to your mourning duties with a clear conscience. Elena and I are married now—taking care of her is my responsibility, my duty, exactly as it should be."
Having delivered that reassurance, he pivoted smoothly to face Elena. His hand extended with deliberately practiced casualness, landing gently on her shoulder with manufactured intimacy: "Wife, you can also rest easy about this. Let Sophia go with peace of mind. I'm here now. I'll handle everything."
Elena's pupils remained profoundly dark—like two bottomless ancient wells that revealed absolutely nothing about what resided in their depths. Impossible to determine whether she felt joy, sorrow, or complete indifference.
Her bloodless, ascetically thin lips parted fractionally, releasing several words utterly devoid of warmth: "Fine. Proceed with that arrangement."
Having delivered that verdict, she refused to look at either of them further. She maneuvered her wheelchair with practiced efficiency, gliding silently from the study and leaving behind only her cool, aloof silhouette. As though the decision just rendered was merely some trivial matter completely unrelated to her personal welfare.
Marcus watched her departure, mind already churning through calculations for tomorrow's "care schedule" and strategic opportunities for point accumulation.
The instant Elena's wheelchair turned the corridor corner and vanished from Marcus's direct line of sight, an extremely brief, difficult-to-catch glimmer of profound calculation flashed through her eyes—there and gone like heat lightning.
Manager Sophia remained standing behind Marcus, professional smile fixed firmly in place, though her tone carried subtle notes of entrustment and concern: "I'll have to trouble Young Master to invest considerable care and attention in Miss's daily routines from this point forward."
Marcus hastily waved his hand in dismissal, working to project maximum sincerity and reliability: "No trouble whatsoever—absolutely none. This is entirely what I should be doing. In fact, I should be thanking you for sharing all this important information with me."
What he actually thought: This is all critically important survival intelligence. Life-or-death information.
Before departing, Sophia meticulously reviewed essential details one final time:
Elena's three daily meals would be prepared by kitchen staff and delivered promptly at scheduled times.
She rarely consumed water proactively—her hydration habits bordered on concerning neglect, drinking only when thirst became genuinely uncomfortable.
Her bathroom visits—particularly those upon waking and before sleep—represented moments where she fiercely protected her dignity. He must never offer assistance during these times. She absolutely had to complete them independently, regardless of difficulty.
His primary assistance would be required for dressing and bathing. Because her legs couldn't bear any weight, someone needed to physically carry her into the bathtub. Additionally, her bathing sessions always consumed considerable time—she was meticulous about cleanliness.
Furthermore, she required fresh clothing daily, coordinated with appropriate makeup application and jewelry selection. After completing these preparations, she would sequester herself in the study for private learning time.
Marcus nodded along attentively, internally calculating: This household manager has genuinely thrown the entire hot potato of "caring for the psychologically unstable young mistress" completely onto my shoulders.
As they reached the third floor, Sophia gestured toward a room positioned at the far end of the corridor. Her tone shifted suddenly, becoming notably more serious as she lowered her voice to nearly a whisper:
"There's one more thing—I don't know whether Miss has mentioned this to you directly. That final room down there, at the corridor's end? You absolutely must not enter under any circumstances. That place... contains all of Miss's 'treasures.'"
Treasures?
Marcus followed her indication down the hallway. A heavy vermillion wooden door stood tightly sealed, embedded incongruously in the cold white marble wall—the color contrast creating an unsettling visual discord. The lighting fixtures near that doorway appeared damaged or deliberately disabled, leaving the area shrouded in dim illumination. An eerie, almost palpably threatening atmosphere emanated from that direction.
Marcus's heart performed an uncomfortable skip. His imagination immediately generated various horrifying scenarios: Could what's stored inside be the collection of "tools" Elena Nightshade will eventually use to dismember me? Is this her trophy room of previous victims?
He forced his facial muscles into a casual smile, nodding with affected nonchalance: "Understood. Thank you for the warning. I'll remember."
Late into the night, Elena had already positioned herself in bed. Her snow-white face nestled within the dark luxury of her loosely scattered hair, eyes wide open and fixed on the intricate crystal chandelier fixture suspended from the ceiling. Lost in thought, unreadable.
Marcus, carrying a cup of lukewarm honey water, gently pushed the bedroom door open and spoke with deliberately soft tone: "Elena, are you thirsty at all? I brought you some honey water—it's good for sleep."
Elena's body remained motionless, but her gaze shifted fractionally. Those cold eyes swept toward him with predatory assessment.
The household manager had been dispatched exactly as Elena intended. Now she wanted to observe what this mysteriously transformed Marcus Chen—who'd returned behaving so inexplicably—was genuinely attempting to accomplish.
Beneath the covers, her thumb caressed the gemstone wedding ring with subtle, practiced movements. The poisoned needle concealed in its secret compartment extended and retracted in rhythm with her pulse, primed for deployment.
Marcus paused at the threshold, clearing his throat as though gathering courage: "I'm coming inside now."
He dragged a chair over and seated himself properly beside the bed in a posture of respectful attendance. Holding the cup in one hand, he used a spoon to carefully scoop up some honey water, brought it to his own lips, and blew across the surface with slow, deliberate breaths—treating her like a precious child requiring gentle care. He even tested the temperature against his own mouth first, confirming it wasn't too hot before carefully offering it toward Elena's lips.
"I'm not thirsty." Elena pressed her pale lips together firmly, her expression carrying obvious irritation. She turned her face naturally toward the opposite direction in flat rejection, showing zero appreciation for his effort.
Didn't expect such a cold reception.
Marcus suppressed an internal sigh. He'd thought that honey water before sleep might help her rest more peacefully, but seeing such fierce resistance, he had no choice except to set the cup aside.
He then began arranging his floor sleeping area with practiced efficiency—same location, same pillow, same absurdly expensive yet emotionally cold carpet beneath him. His movements were so routine they made him feel somewhat pathetic:
When will I finally graduate to sleeping in that actual soft bed?
He immediately dismissed the fantasy. Forget it. Don't even dream about it. If you want to accelerate your death timeline, feel free to try climbing in there.
Clearly, Elena had not relaxed her defensive posture toward him by even one degree. More accurately: she'd been strategically utilizing him from the very beginning, and the Original Owner's violent outburst last night had undoubtedly exceeded the parameters of her "controllable exploitation" framework. Therefore, this current stalemate state might actually represent the "safest" configuration from her perspective.
But Marcus couldn't afford to remain passive. Constant retreat would only stall his strategic progress indefinitely.
Observing Elena's half-turned face—radiating resistance and deliberate distance—Marcus's mind raced at maximum processing speed, analyzing how to break through this deadlock.
After several moments of calculation, he acted as though suddenly remembering something important. He rolled up his shirt sleeve again with theatrical casualness, exposing that arm marked with red, swollen tissue from the tattoo removal procedure.
He angled his body deliberately, ensuring the damaged arm entered Elena's direct line of sight.
"I told you yesterday—I genuinely want to change. I mean it." Marcus cautiously monitored her expression, his tone carrying notes of carefully calibrated wounded feelings. "Look—I even went through the process of removing the tattoo you disliked most intensely." He paused for emphasis before adding softly: "Originally... back before we were married... you asked me to have it removed. Remember?"