Marcus dropped into a crouch, bringing himself to Elena's eye level with the calculated precision of someone who'd spent years reading body language and calibrating approach angles. He forced his features into an expression designed to communicate remorse, concern, and authentic guilt—the holy trinity of apologetic performance.
"Elena, I'm so sorry." The words emerged weighted with manufactured emotion, his voice roughening at strategic moments. "This is entirely my fault. You suffered terrifying trauma because I wasn't there, wasn't protecting you like I should have been." He let the self-recrimination breathe before adding with renewed intensity, "I swear to you—from this moment forward, I will never leave your side. You'll have constant protection. But right now, please... you need to eat something. You've gone nearly twenty-four hours without food. Your body can't sustain that kind of deprivation."
He extended the sandwich again, the gesture radiating hopeful concern.
Elena's delicate eyebrows drew together in a configuration that suggested deep thought rather than anger. When she spoke, her voice carried the deceptive calm of someone conducting an interrogation disguised as casual conversation.
"You mentioned spending time with Mr. Devon today." Her eyes found his with laser focus. "Where exactly in the city were you? Which district?"
Marcus's expression maintained perfect innocuous neutrality. "Just wandering around the shopping district in the city center. You know how it is—aimless browsing, killing time, nothing specific."
The lie emerged smooth as silk, practiced and convincing.
Elena's eyelashes executed the barest flutter—a microexpression so subtle most people would've missed it entirely. Her voice remained steady, almost conversational, but the words themselves contained razors.
"Interesting. Because if you were shopping in the city center when Teacher Qi called..." She paused, allowing tension to accumulate like charge in a capacitor. "How exactly did you manage to arrive at school so quickly? The commute alone should've taken forty-five minutes minimum, even with minimal traffic."
Marcus felt his pupils contract involuntarily, a physiological response to sudden threat detection that he couldn't fully suppress. His heart rate spiked as realization crashed over him like ice water.
She caught me. She set a logical trap and I walked directly into it like an amateur.
His internal monologue erupted into panic. This girl's analytical mind is terrifying! She's dismantling my alibi with surgical precision!
But years of undercover work had trained him for exactly this scenario—when caught in a lie, adjust immediately. Don't double down. Pivot to a more believable truth laced with just enough vulnerability to seem authentic.
Marcus allowed his expression to shift through a carefully choreographed sequence: surprise → recognition → sheepish guilt. He produced a laugh that sounded rueful, almost self-deprecating, before raising both hands in a gesture of surrender.
"Alright, you got me." His smile acquired an edge of "you're too smart for me" admiration. "I lied about Devon. Complete fabrication." He drew a breath, as though steeling himself for embarrassing confession. "Truth is... I never left campus. I was here the whole time, staying close, keeping watch over you from a distance."
Elena's response was a single syllable: "Hmm?" The sound conveyed perfect skepticism packaged as patient inquiry. Continue. Explain yourself.
"I noticed you skipped breakfast, then lunch. Just sat in that classroom refusing to eat anything." Marcus's voice acquired genuine concern—because this part was actually true, which made the lie more convincing. "I got worried. Thought I'd run to the campus convenience store, grab some food, bring it back. But in that tiny window—maybe ten, fifteen minutes maximum—you vanished."
He let frustration bleed into his tone, selling the narrative. "I searched everywhere. Started panicking. And then Teacher Qi called, explained what happened, that he'd found you..." Marcus's voice dropped, threading with what sounded like genuine relief. "Thank god he got there when he did. If he hadn't..."
He left the sentence incomplete, allowing implication to fill the void.
The explanation possessed internal logic, accounting for the geographical inconsistency while explaining his rapid response time. More critically, it aligned with his established character—the shameless husband who constantly hovered, seeking contact opportunities.
Elena's analytical mind processed the revised narrative, searching for contradictions. And frustratingly, she found none immediately apparent.
Moreover, her understanding of Marcus's psychology suggested this version was actually more plausible than the original lie. If he'd genuinely rescued her from that building, he would've burst into the principal's office demanding credit, milking the hero narrative for maximum dramatic impact. Concealment ran counter to his established behavioral patterns.
So if not Marcus... then who?
The question hung in her consciousness like an unanswered equation. The mysterious benefactor who'd intervened with impossible precision. The owner of that mother-of-pearl button currently residing in her clenched fist.
Elena suppressed her spiraling speculation, forcing her features into neutral composure. "Let's go home."
Marcus, naturally, couldn't let victory rest unchallenged. He thrust the sandwich forward again with renewed enthusiasm. "At least take one bite. Something to cushion your stomach lining. Otherwise you'll develop gastritis, possibly an ulcer if this becomes a pattern—"
Elena's response was to press the wheelchair's control mechanism, executing a smooth pivot that oriented her away from him entirely. The chair rolled forward with quiet efficiency, carrying her proud, isolated figure toward the campus gates like a ship departing harbor—beautiful, solitary, refusing all attempts at approach.
Marcus stood there holding rejected food, watching her retreat, and wondered if he'd actually convinced her or merely postponed the inevitable interrogation.
The villa's master bathroom existed in permanent twilight—soft lighting designed to soothe rather than illuminate, surfaces of polished marble that gleamed like water-smoothed stone. Steam rose from the oversized bathtub in lazy spirals, creating atmospheric conditions more suited to romantic photography than personal hygiene.
Elena had been submerged for nearly forty minutes, the hot water gradually cooling toward lukewarm as she remained motionless, letting warmth seep into muscles that still carried residual tension from the afternoon's violence.
She was trying to wash away more than physical grime. The sensation of those boys' hands gripping her wheelchair. Veronica's cruel laughter. The concrete floor's unforgiving hardness when they'd shoved her from her chair. The helplessness of being trapped, vulnerable, completely at the mercy of people who wanted to hurt her for entertainment.
Water could cleanse skin. It couldn't quite reach the contamination that burrowed deeper.
Finally, she stirred. One slender arm emerged from beneath the water's surface, pale fingers finding purchase on the tub's curved edge. She pulled herself upright with the upper body strength she'd developed over years of compensating for her useless legs, water cascading off her skin in rivulets.
She gathered her long, wet hair forward across her chest, the dark strands providing strategic coverage while exposing the elegant curve of her spine—vertebrae visible beneath skin so pale it appeared almost translucent under the bathroom's diffused lighting.
Water droplets traced meandering paths down her back and arms, following the natural topography of muscle and bone with the inevitability of gravity.
Sophia—the household manager who'd known Elena since childhood—stood at respectful distance, towels at ready, trying not to stare but unable to completely suppress human response to aesthetic observation.
At twenty, Elena had fully transitioned from adolescent incompleteness into adult form. Her figure possessed qualities that classical sculptors spent lifetimes attempting to capture—the kind of proportions that prompted involuntary appreciation regardless of viewer orientation.
If not for the legs, Sophia thought with familiar melancholy, she could have had anything. Anyone. The world would've been hers.
But fate had other plans. And sometimes Sophia genuinely wondered: was existence like this—beautiful, brilliant, and fundamentally broken—actually worth the effort of continuing?
Elena's voice interrupted the philosophical spiral. "Sophia." She raised her closed fist, unfurling fingers to reveal the button resting in her palm. "Have you ever seen buttons like this one?"
Sophia stepped closer, accepting the small object for examination. She held it near the light, rotating it to catch illumination from multiple angles, her brow furrowing with concentration.
"Seawater mother-of-pearl. Excellent quality—this is premium material, not the synthetic alternatives." Her thumb traced the button's smooth surface. "The style seems... familiar? I feel like I've seen something similar, but I can't place where exactly."
Elena's attention sharpened fractionally. "Could it be from clothing someone in this household owns?"
Sophia continued her examination, then shook her head with visible frustration. "Mother-of-pearl buttons aren't exactly rare among wealthy families. Custom dress shirts, bespoke suits—they're a fairly standard luxury detail." She returned the button, her expression apologetic. "I'm sorry, Miss. Without more context, I can't identify the specific source. Is there something particular about this button? Some significance I should understand?"
Elena's fingers closed around the object again, concealing it from view. She sank back into the cooling bathwater, letting it rise to shoulder level before responding with studied indifference.
"Nothing important. Just curiosity. Idle wondering."
But even as she spoke the dismissal, her mind refused to release the question. The button. The mysterious intervention. The scent of agarwood that had clung to the object's surface.
It was a thorn embedded beneath skin—small, easily overlooked, but impossible to forget.
Post-bath, Elena emerged smelling of expensive body wash—something floral with undertones of clean musk—and was wheeled by Sophia into the dining room where dinner awaited.
Marcus had positioned himself at the table already, clearly waiting for her arrival. The moment she appeared in the doorway, he rose with the kind of eager enthusiasm usually reserved for beloved family members returning from dangerous journeys.
He pulled out her usual chair with theatrical flourish, his smile radiating warmth and anticipation. "Elena, perfect timing! Here, let me help you."
He moved toward her wheelchair with clear intent, hands already extending.
Elena's body registered the approach with involuntary tension. Here we go. Another round of his invasive 'assistance.'
The problem was tactical rather than emotional: Sophia stood three meters away, observing the domestic scene with benign approval. If Elena rejected Marcus's help too forcefully—especially using the poison needle concealed in her ring—it would raise questions she'd prefer to avoid answering.
Her hesitation lasted perhaps two seconds. Marcus interpreted it as consent.
He bent forward, bringing his face close to hers—too close, invading personal space with the confident presumption of someone claiming rights he'd technically purchased through marriage paperwork. His broad chest filled her visual field, radiating body heat that felt aggressive in its proximity.
And then the scent hit her awareness with the force of revelation.
The masculine fragrance surrounding Marcus—that specific combination of agarwood cologne underlaid with the subtle musk of exertion, the faint salt of dried sweat—was identical to what she'd detected on the button. Not similar. Not reminiscent. Molecularly identical.
It was him.
The realization crashed through her analytical mind like lightning through a circuit, illuminating connections with painful clarity.
The button belongs to Marcus. Which means Marcus was in that building. Which means—
His hands slid beneath her legs—one supporting her thighs, the other finding the sensitive hollow behind her knees. The contact was warm, firm, undeniably intimate despite the functional purpose.
And as he lifted her—her body suddenly weightless, suspended in space, completely dependent on his strength—she felt it clearly.
His fingertips. Stroking with deliberate subtlety across the delicate skin behind her knee. The touch was fleeting, easily dismissed as accidental if she called attention to it. But Elena knew better.
Intentional. Calculated.
Pervert!
She lifted her gaze to meet his eyes, channeling every ounce of her considerable rage into that look. The visual equivalent of stabbing him repeatedly with sharp objects.
Marcus registered the death glare immediately—impossible to miss, really, given that her eyes had achieved temperatures normally found in deep space. He sucked in a sharp breath, and his expression underwent rapid transformation into something placating, almost comically apologetic.
That smile. That horrible, ingratiating smile that revealed eight teeth in perfect dental-commercial formation.
He deposited her onto the dining chair with sudden haste, as though prolonged contact might result in spontaneous combustion or possibly poisoning.
Heaven help me, Marcus's internal monologue wailed miserably. I don't WANT to be this creepy! But the system demands skin contact for points! What am I supposed to do?!
This was, without question, the most degrading, low-class, technically-harassment-adjacent mission in the entire history of transmigration literature. His self-image as a decent, honorable, morally upright individual was being systematically demolished by this goddamn point system.
Fortune materialized in his consciousness with the timing of a sycophant detecting weakness.
[Ding! Congratulations, Host! Successfully acquired +5 Positive Value through 'Princess Carry' maneuver combined with 'Subtle Tactile Engagement'! Your progress toward the 100-million-yuan objective continues to advance! Keep up the excellent work!]
The system's electronic voice carried unmistakable notes of desperate flattery—the vocal equivalent of someone trying to prevent their employer from rage-quitting.