Marcus felt something akin to electrical current surge through his nervous system—Fortune's notification functioning as mainlined adrenaline directly to his motivation centers.
five points for that brief contact? The ROI (return on investment) on physical proximity is actually incredible.
His internal monologue shifted gears, adopting the kind of ruthless cost-benefit analysis that had served him well in his previous career. So what if I have to play the role of "clingy affection monster"? For one hundred million yuan, I can endure significantly worse indignities.
He attempted further rationalization, constructing elaborate justifications for behavior he knew was fundamentally problematic. Besides, Elena is objectively beautiful—like a museum-quality artwork given human form. She's delicate and soft and feminine. Surely there can exist purely platonic physical contact between men and women? Perfectly innocent touching that serves practical purposes?
The mental gymnastics required to believe this nonsense would've qualified him for Olympic competition, but the self-deception worked its magic. His conscience, thoroughly anesthetized by greed and desperate need, settled into comfortable numbness.
Marcus propped his chin on one palm, his attention drifting—ostensibly casual but actually laser-focused—toward Elena as she consumed her meal with methodical precision. His gaze acquired intensity that bordered on uncomfortable, the kind of staring that made people check if they had food on their face.
Elena registered the weight of his observation with the sensitivity of someone perpetually monitoring for threats. Her head lifted sharply, eyes narrowing with suspicion. "Are you planning to eat? Or just watch me like some kind of behaviorist studying lab specimens?"
"Right! Yes! Eating!" Marcus jerked back to awareness, fumbling for his chopsticks with hands that moved a fraction too quickly, betraying his distraction. Then, as though just remembering critical information: "Oh—Elena, I should mention, I requested tomorrow off from school on your behalf."
Elena's head tilted fractionally, the gesture somehow conveying both surprise and wariness. "You did what? Why would you do that without consulting me first?"
Because tomorrow, according to the original timeline, you're supposed to be arranging Veronica Xue's gruesome murder, Marcus's internal voice supplied with grim certainty. And I absolutely cannot allow you to cross that particular Rubicon. Not yet. Not while there's still a chance to alter your trajectory away from complete moral darkness.
He needed to prevent the bloodshed—both to preserve what remained of Elena's humanity and to protect his own "Positive Value" metrics from contamination by her descent into active villainy.
But he couldn't explain any of that, obviously.
Instead, Marcus's hand moved with deceptive casualness—reaching across the space between them to target the elegant curve of her neck.
Elena's reflexes triggered immediately, her body initiating a backward lean to escape the incoming contact. But Marcus's palm was already in motion, his large hand settling against the nape of her neck with gentle but inexorable pressure.
His voice dropped into lower registers, acquiring a texture somewhere between command and plea. "Hold still for a moment."
Elena's breath caught audibly, trapped in her throat. Marcus loomed into her personal space with his face mere inches away, close enough that she could count individual pores, catalogue the precise shade of his irises, feel the warmth radiating from his skin.
He made a performance of examining her neck and facial skin for injuries, his exhalations ghosting across her throat in rhythmic patterns that triggered involuntary responses—fine hairs standing erect, pulse points accelerating, skin prickling with heightened awareness.
She pressed her lips into a compressed line, every muscle in her body broadcasting rejection of this enforced intimacy.
If Sophia weren't standing right there watching, Elena thought with dark certainty, I would genuinely believe he's about to snap my neck. This feels like the prelude to assassination, not affection.
His fingers commenced a slow exploration across her nape—tracing the delicate architecture of vertebrae, testing the tension in trapezius muscles, mapping skin temperature with his burning fingertips. Each point of contact felt like individual sparks igniting along her nervous system, creating trails of tingling sensation that made her scalp contract involuntarily.
She hunched her shoulders in wordless protest, her body's language screaming discomfort even as social constraints prevented verbal objection.
"Stay still," Marcus murmured, his profile sharply defined in the dining room's lighting—the aristocratic line of his nose, the clean angle of his jaw. "I'm checking for contusions or subcutaneous hemorrhaging from today's incident. You took a hard fall onto concrete. Internal injuries can manifest hours or even days after initial trauma."
The medical terminology added credible veneer to absolute fabrication.
Elena forced air into her constricted lungs, her voice emerging with permafrost temperatures. "Your concern is unnecessary and unwelcome."
"Which is precisely why I've arranged for our family physician to conduct a comprehensive examination tomorrow." Marcus withdrew his hand—finally, mercifully—and retreated to a more appropriate distance. "We need to ensure there's no lasting damage. Prevention trumps treatment."
"A doctor?" Something flickered in Elena's eyes—so brief Marcus almost missed it. A gleam of something that might have been hope, or perhaps desperate longing, surfacing for a single heartbeat before being ruthlessly suppressed. Her voice flattened back to careful neutrality. "That's not necessary. I'm perfectly fine."
But Marcus had seen it—that momentary fracture in her armor.
The image that flashed through his mind was almost painfully vivid: a camellia blossom on the verge of death from drought, briefly reviving when promised water, petals unfurling with tentative optimism... only to wither again when the moisture failed to materialize, collapsing back into desiccation as root rot made hydration meaningless.
She wants help, he realized with uncomfortable clarity. She wants someone to care about her physical wellbeing. But she's learned not to trust those wants. Learned that hope leads to disappointment.
Something uncomfortable twisted in Marcus's chest—an emotion he didn't want to examine too closely. He concealed the reaction behind casual movement, letting his hand drop as though nothing significant had occurred, retrieving his soup spoon to consume pumpkin bisque with affected nonchalance.
The dining room settled into loaded silence, the air thick with unspoken tensions.
The doorbell's chime cut through the quiet with crystalline clarity.
Sophia rose immediately, her professional instincts engaging as she moved toward the entrance. She returned moments later bearing a neatly folded white dress shirt, the fabric crisp from professional laundering.
"Young Master Chen," she announced, extending the garment, "the tailor shop sent this over. Your cleaning order."
"Already?" Marcus stood with genuine surprise coloring his features. "That was remarkably efficient."
He accepted the shirt and—in full view of both Elena and Sophia—made an elaborate show of unfolding it for inspection. His hands smoothed across the collar, examining for residual stains or cleaning damage. His fingers traced along the cuffs, checking button security and fabric integrity.
"Excellent work," he pronounced with satisfaction. "Spotless. You'd never know it had been soiled at all."
Even as the words left his mouth, Marcus registered a change in atmospheric pressure—the sensation of being observed with predatory focus.
His eyes lifted, finding Elena's gaze locked onto the shirt with an intensity that could have bored holes through steel. Specifically, her attention had fixated on the row of gleaming white mother-of-pearl buttons marching down the shirt's placket.
Oh. Oh fuck.
"That shirt..." Elena's voice emerged quiet but weighted with significance. "Where did it come from?"
Marcus's mind raced through strategic options at processor speeds, selecting the response with optimal plausibility. His expression remained cheerfully oblivious as he deployed his prepared explanation.
"This? Got it dirty earlier today—clumsy accident. The tailor shop near campus does excellent work, so I dropped it off for cleaning." He transferred the shirt to Sophia's waiting hands with casual dismissal, gesturing for her to hang it in his closet. "Standard maintenance, you know."
He reclaimed his seat, returning to his meal as though discussing laundry qualified as the least interesting topic imaginable.
But Elena wasn't finished.
"How exactly did it become soiled?" The question carried the persistence of an investigator who'd caught the scent of deception. "What kind of accident?"
Marcus's face maintained perfect innocence—not a flicker of concern, not a tremor of guilt. His lie rolled off his tongue with the smooth professionalism of someone who'd spent years in deep cover operations.
"Milk," he stated simply. "Was drinking it too quickly, wasn't paying attention, splash of white across the front. You know how it is." A slight shrug accompanied the explanation, projecting "these things happen."
His internal monologue, meanwhile, spiraled into different territory entirely. Wait. Why is she interrogating me about laundry? Unless... oh god. Does she think I was with another woman? That some lipstick-wearing home-wrecker left evidence on my clothing?
The possibility wasn't absurd. Marcus's inherited memories included a particularly graphic scene from the original novel—some unfortunate woman with a death wish who'd shown up at Elena's door brandishing the original Marcus Chen's underwear like a trophy, bragging about his "impressive core strength and stamina" before tossing the garment at Elena with instructions to "return it when you're done with him."
That woman's fate had been... creative. And terminal.
Marcus suppressed a full-body shudder at the memory. He arranged his features into an expression of wounded innocence—eyes widening fractionally, a hint of hurt coloring his tone.
"You don't believe me?" The question emerged with precisely calibrated vulnerability.
Elena's suspicion didn't dissipate, but she apparently decided against pursuing the interrogation further. Her eyelashes lowered like descending curtains, concealing whatever calculations were occurring behind them. She set down her spoon with deliberate precision.
"I've finished eating. I'm retiring for the evening." Her voice had reassumed its characteristic ice-princess quality—remote, untouchable, thoroughly done with this conversation.
She engaged the wheelchair's controls and departed toward the elevator, her rigid spine projecting dismissal.
Marcus watched her retreat, uncertain whether he'd successfully deflected suspicion or merely delayed inevitable discovery.
Elena did not, however, proceed directly to her bedroom.
The elevator delivered her to the second floor, where she found Sophia emerging from the guest wing. Elena modulated her voice to carry just far enough.
"Sophia."
The housekeeper registered something significant in Elena's tone—some quality that triggered her well-honed instincts for discretion. She approached with her head slightly bowed, voice dropping to confidential levels.
"Yes, Miss? How may I assist you?"
"The shirt that just arrived." Elena's words emerged barely above a whisper. "Where was it stored?"
"First compartment in Young Master Chen's wardrobe, right side." Sophia provided the information promptly, though her expression betrayed confusion about why this mattered.
Then understanding apparently dawned—her eyes widening fractionally as she jumped to conclusions.
"Miss," Sophia leaned closer, her voice acquiring conspiratorial overtones, "I inspected the garment thoroughly before putting it away. I can assure you—it's completely clean. No lipstick marks, no perfume residue, no evidence of... inappropriate contact."
Elena's cheeks acquired the faintest flush—whether from embarrassment or irritation, hard to determine. She produced two delicate coughs.
"That's not what I—" She cut herself off, shaking her head. "Never mind. You may go."
Sophia retreated with a knowing expression that suggested she believed she'd successfully conducted counter-intelligence work on her mistress's behalf.
Elena waited until the housekeeper's footsteps faded completely before allowing herself a long, slow exhalation.
The button, she thought, fingers unconsciously finding it in her pocket. I need to see those buttons up close. Compare them directly.
Her wheelchair rolled silently toward Marcus's room, where answers—or more questions—awaited.