Over half of the mahogany furniture, the grand writing desk, the vanity tables, and the sitting chairs were still draped in heavy, grey canvas drop-cloths used for dust protection during long-term storage.
The large king-sized bed in the center of the sleeping chamber had no duvet, no silk covers, and no decorative pillows; there was only a thin, cheap synthetic mattress protector thrown carelessly over the mattress, looking like something dragged out of a low-end budget motel.
Worse still, the large double doors leading out to the balcony had been left wide open, allowing the damp, chilly afternoon draft to blow unchecked through the room, scattering a handful of dead plum blossom leaves across the Persian rug.
In the corner of the room, Celeste’s minimalist, battle-scarred duffel bag which the driver had brought up earlier had not been placed on the luggage rack, but dumped carelessly onto the bare floor near the bathroom door, tilting sideways as if it were a sack of dirty laundry.
It was not an oversight.
It was a calculated humiliation.
It was the domestic staff, emboldened by years of serving the spoiled, status-obsessed Rosalle, sending a clear, unequivocal message to the returning daughter: You may have the bloodline, but in this house, you are but an uncultivated, uneducated wild girl who doesn’t deserve our respect.
Behind Celeste, Adrian Hartwell stopped dead in his tracks.
The billionaire tech tycoon’s face went from healthy color to an ashen, terrifying pallor in the span of a single second.
The gentle, emotional father who had been weeping in the foyer vanished, replaced instantly by the ruthless corporate sovereign who had crushed twelve rival conglomerates during his rise to power.
His breathing stopped; the veins along his temples began to throb against his pale skin.
“What… is the meaning of this?” Adrian’s voice was barely a whisper, yet it vibrated with a glacial fury that made the glass drops on the chandelier seem to chime in resonance.
Grace gasped, her hand flying to her chest as she looked at the bare, insulting bed and the canvas drop-cloths.
“My god… Evelyn! What did you do? I gave the orders three days ago! I told you to use the imported silk bedsheets! I told you to air out the room and arrange fresh lilies! Why does my daughter’s room look like an abandoned warehouse?!”
Before the parents could erupt into full-scale execution mode, Madam Evelyn dropped to her knees, though her face still wore that practiced, oily mask of feigned distress.
She bowed her head, her voice trembling with artificial panic.
“Madam! Chairman, sir! Please, calm your anger!” Madam Evelyn cried out, wringing her hands together.
“It truly wasn’t deliberate neglect! This morning, Second Miss had an urgent charity gala wardrobe inspection, and she requested three of the east wing maids to help her organize her designer gowns and jewelry collection! We were shorthanded! And… and because we didn’t know Eldest Miss’s exact living habits from her time in the countryside, we feared that placing expensive Suzhou silk or delicate porcelain around the room might make her feel overwhelmed or uncomfortable! We intended to ask her preferences after she settled in!” This chapter was taken from g.com without permission.
Boom!
It was a masterclass in servant-level character assassination.
In one breath, Madam Evelyn had shifted the blame onto an “innocent” misunderstanding, subtly reminded everyone of Rosalle’s high-society status, and publicly insulted Celeste’s background by suggesting that a girl from the wilderness wouldn’t know how to sleep on silk without ruining it.
Adrian Hartwell’s icy eyes narrowed into two slivers of black ice.
His hands clenched into fists at his sides, his corporate mind instantly dissecting the malicious intent.
A servant testing the waters.
How dare she…!!!
If Celeste accepts this humiliation without fighting back, her authority in this household is permanently broken.
If she screams and throws a tantrum, she plays directly into the stereotype of an uncultured, hysterical country girl.
Sebastian stepped forward, his face burning with dark red rage.
“You old hag! Who gave you the right to decide what makes my sister comfortable?! I’ll throw you out of the third-floor window myself—!”
“Sebastian. Stand down,” Celeste’s voice cut through the air like a silver blade slicing through silk.
She hadn’t moved an inch.
She stood in the center of the ruined room, her black wool cape billowing slightly in the cold draft blowing in from the open balcony doors.
Her face was entirely expressionless. You are reading on g.com, the official source.
For a fraction of a second, the training of Sector Four demanded blood.
Her right hand, resting loosely inside her coat pocket, shifted two millimeters toward the belt where her muscle memory knew exactly how to execute a step-in leveraged strike that would dislocate Madam Evelyn’s jaw and shatter her collarbone before the woman could even emit a scream.
In the underworld, disrespecting an apex commander’s sanctuary was an offense punishable by immediate termination.
Then, she felt a sharp, intense squeeze against her left hand.
Celeste looked down.
Noah was standing beside her, his small body trembling violently.
But he wasn’t crying, and he wasn’t frightened.
His pale face was flushed with a pure, incandescent rage that made his obsidian eyes burn like hot coals.
He stared at the canvas drop-cloths, then at the bare mattress, and finally down at Madam Evelyn kneeling on the rug.
His chest rose and fell in ragged, shallow breaths.
He knew this trick.
He knew this exact brand of passive-aggressive cruelty.
How many times over the past three years had his own afternoon snacks arrived cold?
How many times had his study room lamps been left with dead bulbs, or his favorite books misplaced by maids who smiled politely while whispering that the “weird, silent little young master wouldn’t notice the difference anyway”?
They were doing it again, to her.
To the sister who had whispered love to him through the dark, who had just promised to protect him forever.
Before Celeste could speak or Adrian could call for the estate security guards, the ten-year-old boy let go of Celeste’s hand.