The next instant, a vicious, white-hot agony exploded through the soft flesh at Marcus's waist. Elena's fingers—deceptively delicate in appearance—locked onto him with the crushing force of industrial pliers, twisting down with methodical cruelty.
"Ow—!" The strangled yelp tore from Marcus's throat before he could suppress it. His grip on Elena evaporated as survival instinct overrode greed. His body convulsed backward as though he'd grabbed a live wire, momentum carrying him into an ungraceful roll that terminated with a resounding thud against the hardwood floor.
The impact reverberated through the room with embarrassing volume. Marcus lay sprawled on his back, features twisted into a mask of theatrical agony as his hands flew to his abused waist. He sucked air through his teeth in sharp, hissing gasps, his gaze swiveling upward to where Elena now sat upright on the bed, surveying his undignified sprawl with clinical detachment.
"You—you actually tried to murder me!" he accused, voice pitching higher with indignation.
Curiosity overriding caution, he yanked up the hem of his pajama top to assess the damage. Several angry red crescents decorated his skin where her nails had carved their message—a constellation of crescent moons, each one throbbing with its own individual pulse of pain.
How could someone so young possess such terrifying strength? The disconnect between her fragile appearance and the reality of her viciousness never failed to unsettle him.
Elena regarded him from her elevated position with the emotional investment of someone observing an insect. "No one authorized you to touch me," she stated flatly, as though this simple fact explained and justified everything.
She straightened her posture with visible effort, and Marcus noticed with a flicker of something uncomfortably close to guilt that her cheeks still carried the flushed aftermath of oxygen deprivation and suppressed fury. Her breathing remained slightly elevated, chest rising and falling with more force than usual.
Marcus pressed one palm against his sternum, feeling the damp coolness of sweat that had accumulated where Elena's back had rested against him. Whether the perspiration stemmed from fear, exertion, or some other physiological response he preferred not to examine too closely remained unclear. And would remain unclear, if he had any say in the matter.
But surrender wasn't in his nature—not when he'd been a decorated bodyguard, and certainly not now that he was a desperate transmigrator fighting for survival.
"Elena," he began, injecting his tone with wounded righteousness as he struggled into a sitting position, "you are my legal wife. We mutually agreed to cultivate our relationship, develop genuine affection. So what exactly is the problem with me embracing you?" He paused strategically, allowing a note of teasing provocation to creep into his voice. "Unless... could it be that you're actually shy? Or perhaps—and this is just speculation—you've never experienced a man's embrace before? Is that it?"
The temperature in Elena's gaze dropped to subzero levels, frost practically crystallizing in the air between them.
Her hand shot out to seize the down pillow beside her, arm cocking back to launch it at his insufferable face. But the motion arrested halfway through its arc, suspended in midair as she visibly wrestled her temper back under control.
She inhaled deeply—once, twice—forcing the red haze of rage to recede through sheer force of will. When her eyes finally refocused on Marcus, her lips curved into something that bore only a passing resemblance to a smile. The expression was arctic, dripping with contempt.
"Shy?" she repeated, her voice a masterpiece of withering sarcasm. "Over someone like you?"
Her gaze made a deliberate, pointed journey downward, lingering with unmistakable significance on his pajama bottoms—which had indeed become somewhat disheveled during his panicked retreat and subsequent collision with the floor.
Marcus's eyes followed hers automatically, and immediate heat flooded his face as comprehension struck. He erupted into a fit of theatrical coughing, desperate to redirect attention anywhere else.
Elena observed his transparent discomfort with something approaching amusement—though the emotion remained cold, clinical. Her internal assessment crystallized with damning certainty: this man wasn't merely a con artist. He was quite possibly a perverted psychopath with serious boundary issues.
The universe, demonstrating its occasional mercy, dispatched the household butler with impeccably timed intervention. His respectful knock penetrated the bedroom's hostile atmosphere like a diplomatic envoy entering a war zone.
"Miss Nightshade, Master Chen," came the butler's measured tones through the door, "the Chairman has conveyed that excessive sleep is detrimental to one's constitution. He requests your presence for breakfast."
"Acknowledged," Elena called back, her voice undergoing an instantaneous transformation to composed serenity. She drew another steadying breath before adding, "We'll be down presently."
Without sparing Marcus another glance—he'd been downgraded to "not worth the effort of eye contact"—she began smoothing the wrinkles from her nightgown with methodical precision.
Marcus dragged a hand through his hair, sneaking sidelong glances at Elena while his mind worked to process the morning's revelations. During his performance of conjugal devotion, he'd distinctly registered more than one voice outside their door. Grandfather Jiang's distinctive gravelly tones had been accompanied by at least two or three others...
Fortune materialized in his consciousness with the eagerness of an overly helpful GPS system that wouldn't shut up.
[Host! Your perceptions are quite accurate. The visiting party consisted of four individuals: Miss Elena's grandfather, Patriarch Jiang; her Second Uncle, Hubert Jiang; her Second Aunt, Lillian Wang; and her younger cousin, Jason Jiang. Their stated purpose was a casual morning visit, but the actual objective was conducting what might be termed a 'surprise marital inspection'—essentially, verifying the authenticity of your newlywed relationship.]
[Additional intelligence: Second Uncle Hubert and his family have maintained long-standing designs on the Nightshade family assets. They vigorously opposed Elena's marriage to you. This morning's visit, ostensibly arranged by Patriarch Jiang, was likely orchestrated by Hubert with the intention of catching you in a compromising situation—specifically, evidence that the marriage is fraudulent—thereby creating justification for annulment.]
Marcus made a low sound of acknowledgment, feeling retrospective relief wash through him. Thank god for my quick reflexes and my years of undercover training, he thought. If they'd caught me sleeping on the floor like some pathetic outcast, the entire charade would've collapsed instantly.
For perhaps the first time since receiving it, he felt genuine appreciation for his morally questionable "intimate contact point-farming" mission. The shameless exploitation had inadvertently provided perfect cover for his supposed marital bliss.
Sometimes the universe rewarded degeneracy. Who knew?
Elena categorically refused any assistance with her morning ablutions—a boundary Marcus had learned not to test after previous attempts had nearly cost him fingers. He busied himself with dismantling and concealing his makeshift floor bedding, folding blankets with the precision of someone whose survival depended on maintaining appearances.
Which, technically, it did.
Elena's self-care routine proceeded with admirable competence, though the process naturally consumed more time than it would for someone without her physical limitations. By the time she'd completed her preparations and maneuvered her wheelchair toward the door, a full thirty minutes had elapsed.
Marcus assumed his position behind her chair, gripping the handles with what he hoped projected as attentive husbandly devotion rather than "man desperately clinging to his cover story."
They entered the dining room together, and the effect was immediate. The low murmur of conversation around the long mahogany table ceased abruptly, multiple pairs of eyes swiveling in unison to track their entrance like surveillance cameras detecting motion.
The breakfast spread was impressive—an array of Western and Eastern options arranged with the kind of casual elegance that screamed "obscene wealth." Steam still rose from various dishes, yet every seat remained occupied by a person studiously not eating, chopsticks and silverware untouched.
They'd been waiting. Watching. Judging.
Elena's transformation was instantaneous and unsettling in its completeness. The cold, calculating young woman who'd nearly drawn blood from Marcus's waist moments earlier vanished, replaced by a vision of demure gentility. Her expression softened into something achingly sweet, her voice emerging with the delicate warmth of spun honey.
"Grandfather! What a wonderful surprise. I wasn't expecting you so early."
Grandfather Jiang—resplendent in his waistcoat and pressed shirt, crowned with a slightly incongruous cowboy hat that somehow worked with his old-world gentleman aesthetic—barked out a laugh that rattled the crystal. "What's this? A grandfather needs permission and advance scheduling to visit his favorite granddaughter? Ha!"
His eyes, though webbed with age and creased at the corners, retained their predatory sharpness as they conducted a thorough assessment of Elena's appearance, searching for... what? Signs of mistreatment? Evidence of marital discord? Confirmation of happiness?
"Your health requires rest and minimal excitement, Grandfather," Elena protested gently, her concern projecting as entirely genuine. "You should be conserving your energy at home, not making early morning excursions across town."
The old man waved his silver-topped cane dismissively, the gesture both imperious and affectionate. "Nonsense! Now that you're properly married and settled, the greatest burden weighing on this old heart has finally lifted. You'd be amazed how therapeutic peace of mind can be for one's constitution!"
The statement carried layers of meaning—satisfaction at her marriage, relief at her apparent security, perhaps even subtle commentary on family members who weren't properly settled.
Elena's smile never wavered as she redirected her attention to the other three occupants. "Second Uncle Hubert, Aunt Lillian, Jason—good morning to you all."
Young Jason—painfully thin, dark-haired, and radiating the uncomfortable energy of an adolescent who'd rather be literally anywhere else—managed a mumbled response. "Morning, Second Cousin Elena. Morning, Cousin-in-law Marcus."
Marcus immediately deployed his most disarming social smile, the one he'd cultivated during countless undercover operations that required infiltrating high society events. He cycled through the requisite pleasantries with practiced ease, projecting warmth and familiarity.
They'd all been introduced at the wedding reception, of course—he'd even shared drinks with Hubert and exchanged banal small talk. The performance needed to suggest comfortable familiarity, not the reality: that he knew exactly what kind of vipers he was breaking bread with.
As he settled into his seat and began mechanically consuming his breakfast, Marcus allowed his peripheral vision to do reconnaissance work on the "family of three" positioned across the table.
His inherited memories from the original Marcus Chen painted an unflattering portrait: Second Uncle Hubert Jiang projected scholarly refinement—wire-rimmed glasses, tailored clothing, the carefully maintained appearance of a cultured intellectual. Beneath that veneer, however, lurked a man enslaved to his vices, indulging in alcohol and women with the dedication of someone making it a full-time occupation.
Aunt Lillian Wang had clawed her way up from considerably humbler origins—specifically, the nightclub circuit, where she'd worked as a dancer before deploying her considerable talents for manipulation to ensnare a wealthy husband. She'd produced Jason, their son—unfortunately inheriting neither parent's better qualities, resulting in a boy who was academically challenged and physically unprepossessing.
This charming couple had spent years circling the Nightshade family fortune like sharks detecting blood in the water, undermining Elena at every opportunity, sowing discord, positioning themselves for maximum inheritance.
And their ultimate fate, according to the novel's trajectory?
Hubert and Lillian would be sealed inside an abandoned subterranean storage facility by Elena's orders, left to starve in absolute darkness—a death both prolonged and psychologically devastating.
Jason, despite never directly participating in his parents' schemes, wouldn't escape Elena's scorched-earth philosophy. She'd arrange a meticulously planned "accident"—carbon monoxide poisoning during a cozy family gathering, the kind of domestic tragedy that would prompt sympathetic news coverage and zero suspicion.
Tsk, tsk, tsk. Marcus mentally catalogued these grim futures while maintaining his pleasant expression. The people sitting across from him were, in a very real sense, fellow members of an extremely exclusive club: "Individuals Marked for Death by Elena Nightshade."
He was simply further along in the queue.
The thought triggered an involuntary shudder of visceral dread. His eyes betrayed him, swiveling sideways to locate Elena as though confirming she wasn't currently reaching for a concealed weapon.
Grandfather Jiang's observant gaze caught the motion immediately. The patriarch noted with interest how Marcus stared at his granddaughter with an expression that seemed to contain... apprehension? Fear, even?
Excellent, the old man thought with satisfaction. Henpecked already. Elena's got him properly trained and submissive. This bodes well for domestic harmony.
He cleared his throat with deliberate authority, commanding the table's attention. "Marcus, my boy—what occupies your time these days? What professional endeavors are you pursuing?"
Marcus returned to full awareness with visible effort, using his spoon to create unnecessary swirls in his chicken congee while formulating his response. Honesty seemed the safest policy when dealing with someone as perceptive as Grandfather Jiang.
"Sir, I must confess... I'm currently between positions. No formal employment at present."
The truth was even less flattering: the original Marcus Chen had been a thoroughly unreliable wastrel, incapable of maintaining any job for longer than seventy-two hours before abandoning it with complaints about excessive effort or unreasonable expectations. He'd spent his days in aggressive idleness, contributing nothing to society.
Lillian Wang seized upon this admission with the enthusiasm of a prosecutor spotting perjury. She pressed a lace handkerchief to her lips—a gesture of faux delicacy that fooled absolutely no one—and released a tinkling laugh that dripped with condescension.
"My goodness, Marcus dear," she cooed, her voice saturated with saccharine concern that barely masked the venom beneath. "You possess a university education—admittedly from a second-tier institution, but still respectable enough. Three years have passed since your graduation, haven't they? And you've yet to establish yourself in any stable career? How... unusual for a man of your age."
The implication hung in the air, unsubtle as a sledgehammer: What kind of worthless parasite did Elena saddle herself with?
Marcus felt his jaw tighten fractionally, but he maintained his agreeable expression through sheer professional discipline.
The morning was just getting started.