Before Marcus could formulate a response—something diplomatic yet sufficiently evasive—Second Uncle Hubert seized the conversational opening with the gleeful opportunism of a shark detecting blood in the water.
"My dear Lillian, why trouble yourself with such concerns?" His tone dripped with theatrical solicitude, each word carefully weighted to maximize damage. "The young man's parents are coal magnates, after all—sitting atop a veritable mountain of wealth. He could remain unemployed for three lifetimes and never experience genuine financial hardship."
Hubert paused, allowing his words to settle before delivering the killing stroke. "And now that he's been so graciously welcomed into the Nightshade family fold, well... the resources at his disposal are essentially limitless. Why would someone in his enviable position burden himself with the tedious necessity of actual employment?"
The subtext crashed through the room with all the subtlety of a wrecking ball: He's a parasitic gold-digger living off my niece's fortune.
Marcus carefully set down his soup spoon, the porcelain meeting the table with a soft click that somehow conveyed measured restraint. He reclined against his chair back with studied casualness, maintaining his pleasant expression while something considerably colder infiltrated his gaze.
"Second Uncle, your wit is truly legendary," Marcus began, his voice carrying the smooth warmth of aged bourbon laced with arsenic. "However, I feel compelled to clarify a small misunderstanding. I'm currently in negotiations regarding several investment opportunities—primarily venture capital, which naturally operates outside traditional office environments. The beauty of my approach is that while the individual returns may appear modest compared to more... aggressive strategies, they provide reliable, consistent income."
He allowed himself a thoughtful pause, as though considering his next words carefully. "Unlike, say, construction investment portfolios—which can certainly generate spectacular profits during favorable market conditions, but conversely..." Marcus's smile sharpened fractionally, "when such ventures fail, the financial hemorrhaging can be rather catastrophic. Wouldn't you agree, Second Uncle?"
The verbal scalpel slid between Hubert's ribs with surgical precision, finding the exact nerve cluster that would produce maximum pain. His recent string of investment disasters—each one more financially ruinous than the last—had been the subject of hushed family gossip for months.
Hubert's complexion underwent a rapid transformation from healthy tan to mottled crimson, his jaw working soundlessly as humiliation and rage competed for dominance. Being so thoroughly eviscerated by someone he considered an upstart nobody—and in front of the family patriarch, no less—represented an unforgivable loss of face.
Unable to formulate a coherent rebuttal, he seized his water glass with excessive force and gulped down the contents, using the action to buy himself time and avoid meeting anyone's eyes.
Marcus, having delivered his counterstrike with devastating effectiveness, returned to his breakfast with the serene air of someone who'd merely commented on the weather. He retrieved his spoon and resumed consuming his congee, the picture of innocent domesticity.
Grandfather Jiang observed this exchange with the shrewd assessment of someone who'd survived decades of corporate warfare. His gaze lingered on his second son with unmistakable disapproval before shifting to Marcus, his tone moderating to something approaching genuine warmth.
"I've been meaning to discuss something with you, Marcus," the patriarch began, his weathered features arranging themselves into an expression of paternal concern. "If your schedule permits flexibility in the coming weeks, Elena's university semester commences shortly. There's an opening assembly for parents and guardians." He paused meaningfully. "As her husband, you would be the most appropriate representative to attend on the family's behalf."
Understanding crystallized in Marcus's mind. The old man's inquiries about employment hadn't stemmed from judgment or disdain—he'd been conducting reconnaissance, determining whether Marcus possessed sufficient availability to assume certain familial responsibilities.
"Of course, if your business ventures demand too much of your attention..." Grandfather Jiang allowed the sentence to trail off, the challenge implicit.
"Absolutely not!" Marcus interjected with emphatic enthusiasm, deploying his most earnest smile. "No professional obligation could possibly take precedence over supporting Elena. My schedule is entirely flexible—I can definitely make time for this!"
Without conscious thought—or perhaps with too much conscious calculation—his arm extended in a sweeping arc, draping itself across Elena's shoulders with practiced ease. She sat rigidly beside him, mechanically consuming her breakfast in disciplined silence. His thumb found the silken ends of her hair and executed a gentle, almost absent-minded caressing motion. The gesture radiated possessive affection.
"Grandfather, you have my absolute assurance," Marcus declared, his voice thick with syrupy devotion. "From this point forward, I will personally handle all of Elena's transportation to and from campus. Morning drop-offs, afternoon retrievals—consider it my sacred duty. I guarantee flawless execution!"
Elena hadn't anticipated the sudden ambush. The forceful embrace caught her off-balance, momentum carrying her sideways until she collided with Marcus's solid frame. Her pupils dilated with shock and the reflexive urge to inflict violence.
She angled her head slightly, finding Marcus's face mere inches from her own. He was beaming at her with saccharine tenderness, the kind of expression that belonged in romance novel cover art. His free hand rose to smooth several wayward strands of hair behind her ear, his fingertips blazing trails of unwelcome heat across the delicate skin of her earlobe.
"What do you think, darling?" Marcus's voice had achieved a consistency normally reserved for premium honey, so sweet it bordered on nauseating. "Doesn't that sound perfect?"
Elena marshaled every ounce of her considerable self-control to suppress the volcanic rage threatening to erupt. Her fingernails carved crimson crescents into her palms beneath the table's concealing edge, the pain serving as an anchor to rationality. Her lips twisted into something that might generously be classified as a smile—though it resembled more a grimace of profound suffering.
Through teeth clenched so tightly her jaw ached, she forced out a single syllable: "...Lovely."
The word emerged strangled, barely audible, dripping with such concentrated venom that it could have corroded steel.
Beneath the dining table's elegant surface, invisible currents of hostility churned like a riptide, threatening to drag everyone under.
[Ding! Congratulations, Host! Intimate physical contact achieved (shoulder embrace + hair smoothing): Positive Value +1!]
Fortune's cheerful notification chimed through Marcus's consciousness like a slot machine hitting jackpot. Hehehehe. Satisfaction bloomed warm in his chest. He withdrew his arm from Elena's shoulders with calculated nonchalance, as though the entire interaction had been nothing more than the natural, unconscious affection between devoted newlyweds.
No ulterior motives whatsoever. Just love. Pure, simple, definitely-not-mercenary love.
Elena's molars ground together with sufficient force to pulverize diamonds. The phantom sensation of his scorching fingertips lingered on her earlobe and scalp—every point of contact felt like individual embers smoldering against her skin, igniting a chain reaction of crawling discomfort across her entire body.
The violation of being touched without consent, compounded by the humiliation of enduring it publicly, mixed with some indescribable agitation that made her want to claw her own skin off. The contradictory sensations left her mentally reeling, teetering on the edge of doing something extremely regrettable involving the butter knife within reach.
Grandfather Jiang absorbed the tableau with evident pleasure, his weathered features softening into grandfatherly approval. The affectionate display between his granddaughter and her new husband clearly satisfied some deep-seated concern about her future happiness and security.
Across the table, Hubert and Lillian's expressions had curdled into matching masks of complicated emotion—contempt warring with poorly concealed envy, resentment battling against the necessity of maintaining decorum in the patriarch's presence.
Only young Jason remained blissfully oblivious to the undercurrents, his dark eyes sparkling with genuine delight. "Second Cousin Elena and Brother-in-law Marcus have such a wonderful relationship!" he exclaimed with the artless enthusiasm of adolescence. "It's so sweet!"
His broad, genuine grin revealed teeth of startling whiteness—the contrast against his darker complexion so pronounced that Marcus had to resist the urge to squint against the glare.
Breakfast concluded with the predictable exodus. Hubert and Lillian manufactured transparent excuses about pressing business obligations requiring their immediate departure, their hasty retreat suggesting less "important meetings" and more "escape before further humiliation."
Grandfather Jiang also needed to return to his private sanatorium facility—his advanced age and various health considerations demanding careful routine. Before departing, however, he made a point of gripping Marcus's shoulder with surprising strength for a man his age, his expression shifting to solemn gravity.
"Marcus, listen carefully," he began, his voice dropping to convey the weight of genuine concern. "The environment at Elena's university... it's considerably more complicated than you might anticipate. Qingchuan Academy attracts students from the wealthiest, most powerful families in the region, and with that privilege comes a certain element of lawlessness."
He paused, ensuring he had Marcus's complete attention. "There are dangerous individuals on that campus—young men from influential backgrounds who believe themselves untouchable. They operate with impunity, knowing their family connections will shield them from consequences." The old man's jaw tightened. "When you're transporting Elena to and from classes, maintain constant vigilance. Be cautious. These aren't ordinary troublemakers—they're privileged predators."
Marcus nodded with appropriate gravity, though his mind was already cataloguing the information. Of course he knew about Qingchuan Academy's reputation. The prestigious institution held dual status as both elite educational facility and one of the so-called "Ten Great Violent Academies"—a sardonic nickname referring to schools where wealth and power trumped basic safety.
The administration wasn't complicit so much as completely neutered. Bullying victims rarely reported incidents—either paralyzed by fear or silenced by family pressure to avoid "causing trouble." Meanwhile, the perpetrators danced along the razor's edge of institutional rules, protected by layers of legal representatives and family influence that rendered them functionally immune to discipline.
It was Lord of the Flies cosplaying as higher education, bankrolled by billionaires.
But campus politics weren't Marcus's immediate concern. His current crisis involved the decidedly hostile aura emanating from Elena's direction—a psychic pressure so intense it was practically visible.
She'd retreated to the living room's darkest corner, positioning her wheelchair in the precise spot where sunlight refused to penetrate. The shadows embraced her like a physical manifestation of her mood. Her eyes—those obsidian pools that could communicate such devastating coldness—had locked onto Marcus with the fixed intensity of a predator marking prey.
The hatred radiating from that gaze could have flash-frozen the room's atmosphere.
Marcus's confident stride faltered, his chest constricting with inexplicable anxiety. He cleared his throat—a nervous habit he'd never quite managed to suppress—attempting to fracture the oppressive tension with forced cheerfulness.
"Ahem... so, Elena, the weather's actually quite pleasant today. The gardens are lovely this time of morning—perhaps we could take advantage of the sunshine? Fresh air, vitamin D, all very beneficial for—"
"Never touch me again." Her voice emerged from the shadows like a judge pronouncing sentence, each syllable weighted with absolute finality.
Marcus deployed his most innocent expression, though she probably couldn't see it clearly from her shadowed vantage point. "Touch you? I'm not sure I understand what you mean. Are you referring to when I helped smooth your hair during breakfast? That was simply—"
"I don't require your assistance." Elena severed his explanation with the clinical efficiency of a guillotine blade. "I don't want it. I don't need it. And I will not tolerate it."
Despite the arctic warning in her tone, Marcus found himself moving toward the shadowed corner anyway, driven by some combination of stubborn determination and spectacular stupidity. His hand extended with the stated intention of delivering a conciliatory pat to her shoulder—the kind of gesture meant to soothe and placate.
The instant his fingers made contact with a stray strand of her hair, Elena's head snapped away with visceral revulsion, her entire body language screaming rejection.
Undeterred—or perhaps addicted to the dopamine rush of point accumulation—Marcus allowed his hand to complete the motion anyway, his palm settling briefly against the crown of her head in what he optimistically classified as an affectionate gesture.
"Elena, I need you to understand—what happened at breakfast was purely performance," he insisted, his tone radiating earnest sincerity even as his internal monologue ran a completely different script. "Your grandfather and uncle were watching. I had to maintain appearances for the sake of—"
And simultaneously complete my mission objectives, because why waste a perfectly good opportunity?
By his mental calculation, this morning's strategic touching had netted him nearly one hundred Positive Value points—a windfall that brought his total to approximately 152. The ten-thousand-point goal still loomed like Everest, but at least he'd made it to base camp. Progress was progress.
As he spoke, his fingers unconsciously wound through a lock of her hair, the silken texture proving unexpectedly mesmerizing. He toyed with the strand almost absently, anticipation building as he waited for Fortune's familiar notification chime.
Silence.
His mental landscape remained frustratingly quiet—no cheerful system voice, no triumphant ding, no numerical increase whatsoever.
"Fortune?" Marcus projected the question internally, confusion bleeding through. "What's happening? Why isn't the counter moving? Is this because she's angry? Does subject emotional state affect point generation?"
[Fortune: "Emotional state constitutes a contributing factor, Host, but represents a secondary consideration in this scenario. The primary issue is that your current tactile interactions have stagnated within the 'preliminary, superficial contact' category. Repetitive deployment of identical low-level touching behaviors triggers the Law of Diminishing Returns—each subsequent instance yields progressively reduced value until the action becomes completely ineffective for point generation purposes."]
Marcus felt his stomach drop like a malfunctioning elevator. "What exactly are you telling me?"
A very bad feeling was crystallizing in his gut.